


Heart Like a Haunted House

by grumpyphoenix



Series: Various Bangs [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Childhood Trauma, Cop AU, Descriptions of Art Style Serial Killer Corpses, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Peril, deancaspinefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 01:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17992376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: Homicide Detective Dean Winchester is very good at his job, especially when he works with the enigmatic and gorgeous Castiel Novak, a world renowned professor of psychology. Even though he’s wildly in love with the professor, Dean would never dream of disturbing their delicate relationship, until a serial killer comes to town and sets everything on end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What a ride! My artist is the incomparable [Wigglebox](wigglebox.tumblr.com), and I feel so lucky to have been picked!  
> My beta is [Lotrspnfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl), who is, I think, a witch. She's able to decipher piles of commas and sentences filled with the exact same pronoun, all who refer to different people, and render it into a readable format. I would be incomprehensible without her help. She's also a brilliant writer in her own right, check out her profile!
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Dean pulls up his collar against the cold rain, watching his breath hang in the air. At this rate, he’s going to have to invest in a pair of fucking hip waders just to get to crime scenes. He watches the mud splattered crime unit buzz around him like bees and when his phone rings, he startles and slops hot coffee on his hand. Swearing and shaking the coffee off, he answers it without looking.

“Winchester.”

“You owe me two hundred dollars.” The amused, smooth voice on the other end of the phone raises all the hair on the back of Dean’s neck.

“You’re up early,” he growls into the phone. Garth grins knowingly at Dean as he goes by, earning himself a middle finger. Dean turns around, hunching his back slightly. “Nothing better to do in a morning than harass me?”

The voice chuckles. Dean swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly. “Detective, I’m watching you on the news. I told you there would be more bodies. You owe me two hundred dollars and an apology.”

Dean whips his head around, peering around the side of the coroner’s van, and sure enough, a sea of cameras and reporters surge against the police tape. He scowls at them, barely stopping himself from giving them the finger too.

“Now that’s a picture that will make it to the front pages.”

Dean winces, hiding behind the van. 

“You know I was right, that’s why you went out there to begin with.” The smug tone makes Dean want to commit violence.

“Novak, I never accepted your idiotic bet!” Dean searches through his pockets for an antacid packet to no avail. “And even if I  _ had _ , this is a completely different crime. This is an isolated field behind an abandoned farm right in the middle of fuckall. I’m not surprised some whackadoo hid their favorite corpse here. So yeah, you were right in a way, but it’s not what we were looking for.” 

A long, slow sigh comes over the line that makes all of Dean’s nerve endings tingle. Goddamn the man.

“I’ll concede the extra corpse you’re looking at now is not our man, but see that dilapidated barn in the field to your left? Good, yes, that one. Dig there. In the barn, mind you, not the field. When you are finished mucking about in the mud, clean up and come see me. You can buy me lunch… no, buy me dinner and stroke my ego.” 

Dean grits his teeth. “Go fuck yourself, Professor.” He doesn’t miss the throaty chuckle from the other end as he hangs up.

Tapping his phone against his forehead, Dean watches the bustle of the crime scene for a few minutes longer and then grabs Garth.

“Get a few guys over to that barn and see what’s under it. Be careful, it looks like the whole thing could come down any minute.”

He barely registers Garth’s chipper reply as he rubs his temples. Explaining this leap of logic to his boss isn’t going to be easy.

                                                                                                    *

Ordinarily, this would be the best booth in the restaurant. Overlooking the ocean, it’s usually breathtaking during sunset, even in the fall. Colored lights are strung up along the boardwalk, making for a satisfying after dinner walk. Tonight, though, the storm makes the ocean toss and roll, rain lashing at the window. Sitting in a warm pool of light cast by the stained-glass lamps above the tables, Dean watches as white wine flows into his glass. Not a huge wine drinker, he eyes it warily, but his dinner companion continues to pour it, a sly look on his handsome face.

“So how much trouble are you in?” A smile plays over his lips as he regards Dean over the rim of his own glass.

Dean sighs and takes a long drink. Annoyingly, he finds it to be delightful. “Professor…”

The Professor makes a noise. Dean puts his glass down and tries again. “Castiel. I’m not. We found that asshole’s entire family under a trap door in the floor and he didn’t bother to clean up after himself, so it’s a slam-dunk. Jody just didn’t know we’d been talking about this one, is all. That didn’t please her much... But even so, she’s not dumb enough to look this gift horse in the mouth.” 

A waiter appears and he blinks up at him, unsure for a minute at what the man could want. Castiel smoothly passes the menus back and orders for both of them. Dean thinks about making a token protest, but at this point, it’s silly. Castiel always knows what Dean wants to eat anyway. Once the waiter is gone, Castiel gives Dean his entire attention, and Dean wishes instantly that he wouldn’t. The weight of his gaze is always too stripping; he’s yet to find a way to deflect it. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, and Castiel’s lips quirk.

“If you want me to stop helping you, Dean, just tell me.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t. It’s been years and we work well together now. Even if you  _ are _ insufferable when you’re right.”

Castiel’s smile widens and he opens his mouth, but abruptly changes the topic of conversation, beginning a story about one of his students, his voice suddenly distant and polite. Dean blinks in confusion but is fast enough on the uptake to go with it when Castiel flicks his eyes upwards and behind him. Dean shuts up and hunches his shoulders at the sound of a familiar smarmy voice.

“Professor Novak, how  _ interesting  _ to see you here.” A paunchy bald man in a bad suit comes around to the side of the table from behind Dean.

“Professor,” Castiel acknowledges the other man with a smile that reminds Dean of a shark.

“Mr. Rook.” Dean attempts a polite smile. 

Professor Rook raises an eyebrow. “That’s  _ Dean  _ Rook, now. I’m Head of the Psychology department.”

Castiel inclines his head. “Of course, forgive me Zachariah. It’s so new.”

Rook straightens his tie. “Nothing to forgive, Professor Novak. I know you had your heart set on the position, so it’s only natural that you ‘forget’ from time to time. Good to see you again, Detective Winchester. I trust you are not making Professor Novak spend all his time moonlighting with the police rather than doing his  _ actual _ job?”

Dean blinks. “Making him?”

Castiel cuts in smoothly, “Purely a social dinner, Mr. … I’m sorry,  _ Dean _ Rook.”

Dean doesn’t miss the look of disgust that flickers over Zachariah’s face. 

“I  _ see _ ,” he says with a sneer. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the waiter arrives with their cheese plate and he removes himself with a perfunctory, “Enjoy your meal.”

Once the waiter is gone, Dean looks at the appetizer with amusement. Cheese, candied nuts, figs, some prosciutto. Delicious, and nothing he would ever order for himself. Castiel delicately plucks a fig from the plate and chews on it while he watches Dean consider the food.

Dean takes a bite of cheese and lets himself enjoy how amazing it is. “Am I getting you into trouble?” 

“When I am perfectly capable of getting myself into trouble? Don’t mind him. He hates me because he thinks I want his job, but I’m too valuable an asset to the University for him to fire, never mind the tenure. The fact that I’m here instead of an Ivy League school is a feather in their cap,” Castiel says before popping a candied pecan into his mouth.

Dean grins at him. “Modest, too.”

Castiel sits back into his side of the booth, watching Dean eat. “No, simply honest. I know who I am, what I want, and what I can do. He hates that almost as much as he hates my sexuality.”

Dean looks up and meets Castiel’s calm gaze. Food forgotten, he simply stares and Castiel stares back. Just like every time this happens, Dean gets inconveniently hard and his heart hammers so that he’s sure everyone can hear it. He picks up his glass, mostly for something to do with at least one of his hands, itching to run themselves through the man’s messy dark hair.

“Why...” he clears his throat, “why is it interesting? To see you here, I mean, he said it was... why did he say it was interesting?”

Cas licks his lips. Dean’s hand tightens on his glass, but he keeps his gaze steady. 

“I had a very public break up here recently. I think he assumed I wouldn’t ever come back here after being embarrassed like that. I don’t blame the place, though, just the man,” Castiel answers. “Plus, the food here is too good to allow myself to form bad associations. Men come and go, but a restaurant with a genius chef is hard to come by.”

“Never mind that the chef’s your brother  _ and  _ the owner.” Dean tries to seem nonchalant, wine glass still in a death grip. 

Cas smiles. “Indeed. Or that he’s your best friend. You should drink that wine before you accidentally shatter the glass.” 

Castiel breaks the gaze deliberately, looking out the picture window at the blustery night and sipping at his wine quietly. By this time, most other diners have left, and because of the storm, no one else is coming in. It feels as if they’re the only people on earth. Even the waiters have withdrawn.

Dean does as instructed, trying not to drain the glass too fast. He doesn’t want another lecture about how gulping wine is a waste. In the quiet moment, he studies Castiel while he has the luxury to do so. 

He hasn’t shaved, leaving him a little scruffy, and his dark hair is unkempt. He’s wearing a dress shirt and vest with a watch chain for dinner, but he has left the top two buttons undone. The entire look gives him the air of someone who rolled out of bed a half hour ago, even though he knows Castiel has been awake since the dark of the morning. Dean can smell a hint of cologne and he has a wild urge to bury his face in Cas’ neck.

_ Get a grip, dammit. _

“The body,” Castiel’s voice cuts through his reverie and he blinks, “the extra one. Tell me about it.” 

“It’s fresh,” Dean says, vaguely glad that they’re the only ones here. “In fact, I think he was just put into the ground a day or so before we got there, which is too much of a weird coincidence for me. He was about twenty years old, dressed for a club. Early days yet. He had a hand stamp for every gay club on the boardwalk, so I think he was picked up in Krave or maybe Charlie’s, and taken someplace private before the perp dumped him. Viciously strangled though, that I could tell off the bat. Strangled and… played with a bit.”

Cas leans back into the booth with his wine glass. He toys with it, listening to Dean. Every time he gets that expression, Dean gets the impression that he’s listening with his whole being, absorbing everything, turning it around in his remarkable mind. 

“Everyone seems to think it’s a crime of passion or that the victim was a prostitute...” Dean trails off. 

“You don’t, though.” Castiel isn’t asking a question. Dean sighs. “Something is bothering you.” 

Dean tries to shrug it off, but Cas leans forward and his eyes are unnerving in their intensity. “Tell me what it is.”

Any response Dean may have had is cut short by the arrival of their dinner. Using the rituals of food, he tries to hedge around answering; he applies condiments, checks the steak to see if it is cooked correctly, pours another glass of wine. Eventually though, the weight of Castiel’s gaze is too much to ignore or refuse. He sighs.

“This one reminds me of a case my brother is working. I’m not really supposed to know the specifics, but there are some aspects of this that remind me of what I saw in a file of his.” 

Castiel nods, satisfied, and takes a bite of salad. When Dean looks back up at him, he is smiling warmly while he chews. Instantly suspicious, Dean raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m not getting that file for you. I saw what happened the last time you worked a serial killer case, and I won’t be the one responsible for that.” 

Cas frowns. Anxious for him to let it go, Dean turns on the smile that has dropped a entire store’s worth of pants on his bedroom floor. Every time he gets overt about his crush, Castiel pulls back. Sure enough, Cas smiles faintly and falls quiet. While Dean enthusiastically attacks his food during the lull, Cas swirls the wine in his glass and looks out the window, leaving his own food untouched. 

Dean pauses in his onslaught on dinner to sigh happily. “This is the best steak I’ve ever had.”

Castiel quirks up a corner of his mouth. “You say that every time.”

Dean enthusiastically spears a hunk of meat. “And every time it is!”

The moment his mouth is full Cas says nonchalantly, “You should try sex clubs.”

Dean chokes and coughs, glaring through watering eyes. “Dammit, Novak.” 

Castiel smiles behind his wine glass. 

Dean wonders whether to deliberately pretend to misunderstand him or not, but in the end he lets it go. “I know there are actually an alarming amount of those nearby.”

“Alarming? Interesting adjective. There are, but it’s a resort town popular with a certain kind of tourist. Which you knew already.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I believe you, but I can’t just float that to Jody without a reason.” 

Castiel nods slowly. “The clues will be on his person. If I could see him, or at least pictures, I could tell you more.” 

“After the last few cases we solved together, I could get you almost anything you wanted. I can get you the pictures, but if the cases do turn out to be linked the FBI will likely take over. We really shouldn’t be going over that here. We should talk in… um… private.”

Their eyes meet and Dean feels that familiar jolt in his nerves again, as if he was a live wire. He tries to hide the shiver that travels up his spine. Silently, he wills Castiel to say yes, to finally take him home and end this excruciating dance.

Castiel’s voice is the only thing that betrays any emotion. “Of course,” he starts, low and quiet. “Talking about specifics here would be imprudent. You should come by…”

Dean breathes in short bursts, watching Castiel’s mouth. 

“...my office tomorrow. I will be done with students by lunch.” His voice is cheerful, and he’s smiling, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that Dean worries about. 

Disappointment wars with concern in his gut, the food sitting like lead. He forces himself to be cheerful anyway, to accept what he’s given. “Good idea, Professor. Tell you what, I’ll bring lunch. Make it Wednesday, though, we’ll have more information by then.” 

“That would be nice, Dean.” Castiel’s relief is palpable, and all at once everything thaws, his smile finally reaching his eyes. “Now, tell me about this ‘Bad Movie Night’ you and my brother have apparently been hosting every Tuesday. Gabriel will not stop talking about the movie he’s bringing this week. It sounds horrendous.” 

They stay talking so long that the servers deliver a strongly worded note from Gabriel telling them to ‘get a room already’. They do not, but Dean comes home giddy anyway. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday nights are the only time he enjoys being in his apartment. Every piece of furniture he owns is out of a box and most of his real belongings are still in storage from when Sam had gotten promoted to another city and they moved from their joint apartment. This get together serves as one of his non-Castiel related bright spots, and so he always goes overboard with the hospitality. 

Gabriel doesn’t knock, as usual, which means that he scares Dean out of his skin by coming up behind him and waiting until he’s carrying something precarious before speaking. Reflexes honed by years of Gabriel being a shit keep the tray filled with snacks from ending up on the floor. He’s never been able to figure out how a guy who usually talks nonstop can be so damn quiet when he’s trying to make Dean drop things. Ignoring the death glares, Gabe watches him set up the living room, a lollipop firmly lodged in his mouth. 

Usually he’s as obnoxious as possible while Dean’s trying to get ready, but tonight he’s worryingly quiet, running hands through his shaggy blonde hair. He honestly looks nothing like Castiel; how the two of them are brothers is beyond Dean. He quirks a brow at Gabe and stops what he’s doing, waiting for whatever it is to come out. 

“Did you get him involved in a serial killer thing again?” 

Dean frowns. “No. Not really. Just a case that looks kind of like something the FBI is working on, but right now, we don’t know. I promise you, if it turns out to be the same, I’ll redirect him or something. I remember what it was like last time. Anyway, mostly he’s just helping me with little stuff.”

Gabe narrows his eyes and then nods, abruptly relaxing onto the couch. “Well, good. Like what little stuff?”

Despite himself, Dean blushes. “Nothing. I can’t tell you.”

“Ooooh. This sounds juicy. Is it about…” he taps the lollipop against his lip then gestures at Dean with it, “sex clubs?”

Dean deflates. “He told you.” 

“Nah, a waiter heard him tell you to ‘try sex clubs’. He didn’t know you were talking about a murder and it sounded like fun gossip. Well, it  _ actually is _ fun gossip. If you’re thinking that your dead person came from one, try The Blue Angel. It’s the best because it’s the most permissive and frankly the sexiest. Plus, it’s skeezy as hell. It probably wouldn’t be hard to grab some chick there and spirit her away without anyone noticing.” 

“It’s men, actually.”

Gabriel sucks on his lollipop suggestively. “Men, eh. Probably harder- _ so to speak- _ but I’d still check it out.” 

Dean makes a face. “If I go there, I’m not going to see you naked on a stage, am I?”

Sucking the lollipop back into his mouth, Gabe just grins. “Nah. You won’t see me there.” He watches Dean for a while as he places donuts on a tray. “Most people would just leave those in a box.” 

Dean’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t reply, just continues laying out the donuts in a circle by type. 

“You know who likes their food placed just so like that? My brother. Little bro’s kind of anal like that. Come to think of it, I seem to recall you as more of a ‘food in a pile’ guy when we first met.”

Dean doesn’t respond, focusing on his task.

“He sure has you well trained, doesn’t he? Gonna see him tomorrow for lunch? I bet you put all the food out just-so before he lets you eat, right?” 

Dean mutters, “Maybe I like being trained.” 

Gabriel blinks. “What?” 

Tensing his shoulders again, Dean adjusts the pattern on the plate so it’s symmetrical. He ignores how close Gabe is now, invading his space to whisper, “Do you  _ want  _ him to train you? Is that what you’re into, my brother with a whip?”

Dean turns scarlet, heartbeat loud in his own ears, one hand slowly crushing the side of the donut box. Gabe laughs, but it’s this weird sound, off kilter and bitter.

“Well, you two  _ are _ well matched, aren’t you?” 

Dean closes the empty box with a snap. “Goddamit, Gabe, he and I are not -” 

Just then the doorbell rings. It turns out to be everyone, huddling in the rain, as if they’d all crowded into the same Uber to get here. Charlie is in the front holding up some beer. With a laugh, Dean lets them in, more than ready to forget about murder and Castiel for a few hours.

Of course, he gets a phone call halfway through ‘ _ Killer Condom’ _ and leaves the night in full swing behind him. Gabe will clean up, and there’s no reason to ruin everyone else’s good time. 

The lights blink, fast and bright through the rain, red-blue-red-blue.


	3. Chapter 3

The psychology department is two and a half buildings, spanning the old and new campuses, that couldn’t be more different. It’s been raining for three days, and it’s  _ still _ raining when he arrives at the building where they’ve stuck Cas. His office is in the original, built back when it was some kind of religious school, made in a faux-gothic style like a church. Vines grow up most of it now, and the stained-glass windows in the stairwells are old but intact. Most of Castiel’s students are outraged on his behalf since he is the only reason the department even has their shiny new building, but Dean knows that Cas prefers it here. So does Dean. The old wood and marble feel solid and real in a way most other places don’t. Grounded, maybe. All the same, it’s a little spooky, especially late at night.

As usual, Dean opts to take the weird elevator with the scrollwork cage up to the fourth floor instead of the stairs. It rattles and shakes all the way up, the loud mechanics advertising his presence to everyone. The stairs that reach each level go around it in a spiral with a landing for each floor. It’s demonstrably faster to walk up them, and sometimes he gets an amused student who keeps pace with the rickety thing as he ascends. Most of them are Cas’ grad students.

He uses it partly because, for some reason, Castiel hates the thing and sometimes he enjoys pulling the man’s pigtails. He also just likes the old school feel and the element of danger that he might get stuck inside. 

Sure enough, when he gets to Cas’ office door, its open and his TA, a grad student named Camille, is standing in it with a huge grin on her face. No amount of assurances on his part has convinced any of the students that he and Cas aren’t having sex. Cas has stopped bothering at this point, but Dean still has to try. 

“He’s waiting for you, Dean.”

“Detective Winchester to you, Camille.” 

Camille grins. “Uh huh. He could use a good… lunch.” 

Her eyes flick up and down, openly ogling him, and Dean sighs. “We’re not -” 

“Dean, get in here already. Camille, leave the Detective alone,” Cas’ voice calls out peevishly from the depths of his office. 

Dean obeys, and, in response to the snicker from behind him, kicks the door closed in her face.

As always, walking into this office fills Dean with a sense of peace. The outside wall has huge, old, floor to ceiling windows made of ancient thick glass, laid at an attic’s slant. They look out over the spires of the building roof, and beyond that, the quad, grey with mud and freezing rain.

A large fireplace with a whitewashed mantlepiece dominates the far wall. Cas has filled the office himself with comfortable wooden furniture, made sturdy and thick. Every flat space is piled with the books that don’t fit on the bookcases, which cover the other walls, stretching from floor to ceiling. The piles are meticulously neat and ordered, though. 

Cas is leaning against the mantlepiece, staring out at the rain slipping over the glass, distorting the world. He’s absent-mindedly stroking the head of a tiny pink fuzzy stuffed bear, which is the only decoration on it. It’s new and at odds with Castiel’s usual aesthetic.

“Never pegged you for a fuzzy stuffed animal type, Cas. It’s cute.” 

Cas arches an eyebrow and eyes Dean imperiously. “I smell chicken curry. The call you received last night was relevant, then. Well, sit. Take the coat off first,  _ Detective _ . You’ll get my couch wet.” 

Dean swallows. “Sorry, Castiel.” 

He does as asked and then sits on the couch to set the meal up on the coffee table. Castiel watches him with that eyebrow still raised, a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Dean tries not to think about Gabe’s words, about knowing how to set the food up just-so, how he waits for Castiel to come and sit before eating. He tries not to think about the word  _ trained _ . Cas walks behind the couch, touching two fingertips to Dean’s shoulder before coming to sit in the chair across from him.

“This looks delicious,” he says approvingly, and Dean feels absurdly proud, ducking his head to hide his stupid blush, trying to remember how to breathe.

This room is the only place he ever sees Castiel eat without reservation. It feels intimate, as if he has access to something no one else does. Of course the students come in here, but it isn’t the same. Cas isn’t the same with them. Castiel is delicate even now, picking at the food and savoring every bite.

After a few minutes of appreciative silence, Castiel says, “Tell me about the new body.”

“We found him on the beach, actually not too far from the restaurant. He’d been buried under the boardwalk. A bunch of drunk college students went under there and tripped over him. The Coroner said -” 

Dean puts down his plastic fork and rummages through the files, looking to reference the report. “- He’d been dead…. not even twenty-four hours. It looks the same, though, at least on the surface. Strangled. Mutilated. Actually wearing a  _ Charlie’s _ t-shirt this time. She’s going to be pissed.”

Castiel closes his takeout container gingerly, wiping his fingers with the utmost care. “Give me the lot.”

An hour later, Dean has cleaned up the remains of lunch, checked his work email, and is now lying on the couch, looking up at the rain sluicing over the windows. Being allowed to lie on the couch is another of the privileges he’s coaxed out of Cas over time, and he does it every time he brings case files over. It’s also the only time he has sleep that is at all restful and deep. He refuses to examine the way  _ that _ makes him feel.

Cas sits at his desk, a pair of old-fashioned spectacles perched on his nose, looking at everything again. He’s already read the reports a few times over, but he has a process, and Dean respects it. The quiet tick of the radiator and the patter of the rain make him drowsy. Outside of this office, he rarely achieves the kind of stillness that he finds here. He feels safe.

In an eyeblink, the weak light from the sun is gone, replaced with the warmth of Castiel’s desk lamp. The patter of the rain has joined with a quiet click of laptop keys and the faint strains of classical music. His neck has a fearsome crick in it, so Dean sits up and stretches with a yawn. The quilt that is usually draped across the back of the couch has been pulled over him, he grabs at it to keep it from sliding on the floor.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Several hours. I’ve made some progress during your repose.” Cas gets up and brings his laptop over, sitting next to Dean. He’s instantly awake, aware of every inch between them. 

Cas touches Dean’s shoulder, redirecting him to a series of tabs on the browser with a tap of his other hand. “Your victim was a habitual visitor of each of the clubs on the boardwalk, as was the fellow you unearthed the other morning. This one though, was also a member of a few of the sex clubs. Both men were fit and athletic, so your murderer has to be strong to overpower them and attractive enough to lure someone out and into a compromising situation. He may be hard to pinpoint.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, you’re right, ‘attractive and fit’ covers a lot of the demographic for those kinds of places. But maybe he doesn’t have to be huge, maybe he just needs to be clever.”

Cas tilts his head, looking up and into his eyes. “Go on.”

“Well, you’ve met my brother…”

Taking the glasses off and folding them, Cas says, “He’s quite strong. I suspect he could lift both of us if he had leverage.” 

Dean snorts. “Let’s not get that carried away. So, all the vegetables have turned him into a skyscraper, and the obsessive workout routine has made him into a muscle-bound freak, but that’s  _ now _ . In high school, he didn’t shoot up into the atmosphere until he was at least fifteen. Before then, he was tiny.

“In middle and high school, being small and underfed with long hair and second-hand clothes, more interested in books than girls - he stood out. Add the fact that we were desperately poor with a weird dad, and he never stood a chance. Sam didn’t give a shit about any of that, so he would just roll his eyes and make some kind of… of comment that just fanned the flames. So he was attacked a lot.” 

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his own hands for a long time. Castiel puts his own hand on top of Dean’s, squeezing lightly. Dean clears his throat.

“Anyway... Dad had, um, taught us a lot of fighting techniques, but Sam just didn’t have the strength. So, he used his brain. He fought dirty. No one thought he could take them because he was so delicate, and he won every time.”

“You were proud of him.”

Castiel is close to him, leaning in to listen. He strokes the back of Dean’s hand with his fingers. Aching, Dean realizes that their faces are just a whisper apart; he could lean in and brush his lips over Castiel’s…

Castiel knows exactly what Dean is thinking, too; his pupils dilate as he watches Dean talk, licking his lips. 

“The point… the… of the story, it’s just, if the guy is not huge, he looks unassuming. Then he has surprise on his side.” He can’t take his eyes off Cas’ mouth, magnetized.

Cas nods thoughtfully, tapping his fingers where his hand still rests against Dean’s wrist. “So, he’s devious. Unassuming, but attractive enough to leave with.”

The continued contact makes Dean’s pulse jump, but he tries to focus on the conversation. “Not enough alcohol in their systems to be blind drunk, so yeah, he had to talk them into it. I think we have enough to go on.”

“So you’ll be going to these clubs then.” There’s an edge to Cas’ voice, but Dean can’t place what it’s about. 

“Not me, likely someone else in the department, or the vice squad would have someone they could send in. I’m not really…” He nods at the pictures on the screen. “I don’t think I’d get his attention.”

Castiel makes a sound that’s half cough and half laugh but doesn’t pursue that. He does remove his hand though, closing the laptop and moving away. “It’s getting late. You should sleep in a real bed instead of on my couch. I won’t be responsible for their best homicide detective being unable to do his work because his back has gone out.” 

They walk together down the stairs because Cas refuses to use the elevator, and out into the parking lot where they discover that all of the tires on Castiel’s car are flat. Dean crouches next to them to look as Cas pulls out his phone. 

The tires have been slashed, and pretty violently at that. He goes around the car, carefully looking at them all. A hunting knife is lodged in the back left tire, jammed up to the hilt. A quick look confirms that Cas hasn’t seen it yet. He’s peering at his phone with an irritable look on his face.

“Oh, for f... My phone is, of course, out of battery.” 

Dean stands, looking around the lot carefully. It’s just the two of them and a few scattered cars. Keeping his voice even, he gets out his phone. “I can call Gabriel for you, if you want.”

Cas waves his hand dismissively, tiredness and irritation written over his face. “I’ll just go back up to the office and use that phone. No need for you to linger.” 

Dean smiles tightly. “That’s a good idea, but I think I’ll wait anyway. All four of these tires have been slashed pretty savagely.”

He’s never seen Cas stunned like that before, and he wishes he could spend the time to revel in it, but it does mean he can use the opportunity to take charge of the situation. Ushering Cas back into the building, he casually flicks the snap on his holster open. Halfway up the stairs, the sounds of the front door creaking open and shut make him pull the firearm out. Cas presses his lips together in a thin line but says nothing. They can hear someone walking, but no one appears on the stairs to challenge them.

A half hour later, he’s talking to Garth while Cas sits in his favorite chair, so tense that he vibrates slightly as he answers questions. The detective has brought a couple of uniforms with him who take a look around while Garth writes in his notebook. 

“Well, we didn’t find anything else, but we’ll investigate. It’s likely some student upset with their grades. This time of year, it could just be Halloween pranking starting up early. All the same, can you call someone?” 

Cas looks away. “My brother is on a date. I’ll just call a cab.”

“Sure. We’ll be in contact if we find out it’s anything more serious.” Garth grins good naturedly and claps Dean on the shoulder. “See you later, Winchester.” 

Once they’re gone, Dean turns to look at Castiel. He has shut down, withdrawn and cold, sitting rigidly in his chair. Dean hates it. 

“I’ll take you home, Castiel.” 

Cas shakes his head. “Don’t trouble yourself, Detective.” 

His tone is formal. Dismissive. He calls Dean by his title all the time, but the way he said it just now -

He blinks. “ _ Detective _ , now? Cas…” 

Cas looks at him, full in the face, making eye contact. Dean blanches. The fury lurking just beneath the surface is barely controlled; he’s never seen the professor so close to losing his shit. There’s vague sense of menace about him now that’s concerning and thrilling at the same time, but he should really just leave the guy alone to chill out. The image of the hunting knife haunts him though, so instead of doing the smart thing, he crouches in front of the chair to look up at Castiel’s face. 

“Professor Novak,” Dean pitches his voice to be quiet and pleading, “please let me take you home. It would ease my mind to know you arrived safely.” 

Cas arches an eyebrow. Looking down at Dean, he seems to be thinking, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean’s intuition tells him that if he moves and breaks eye contact, he’ll have to resort to shadowing Cas home, so he stays where he is. Cas is quiet for long enough that his legs start to cramp, so Dean slips to his knees to wait out whatever this is. The conversation with Gabriel yesterday pops immediately into his head, and he blushes again. He can’t really lie to himself about that any more. All he  _ wants _ is to be on his knees in front of Castiel. All the same, he doesn’t need to be so damn obvious about it. 

Cas takes in a long slow breath and lets it out, his eyebrow remains raised as he watches Dean struggle with himself. There’s something expectant about his expression, so Dean tries again. 

“Professor Novak, please? It would be my honor to see you safely home.”

“Detective, you may drive me home.” Castiel’s voice is hoarse, the tone imperious and clipped. Something makes Dean wait there instead of moving, and it pays off. Cas rises, keeping eye contact, then taps him on the shoulder with two fingers, that damn faint smile back on his face. At least he’s not pissed any more.

“Very good. Now will do, I think.” 

Dean unsuccessfully tries to will his erection down while he stands and holds the door open for Castiel. Outside, he crowds close on alert until he has Cas in his car. Looking around the lot one last time, he sees the silhouette of a man standing underneath the streetlamp on the far side of the pavement. The lamp is defective, blinking and flickering on and off. He starts towards the figure, but the lamp goes dark, and when the light comes back, the man is gone.

Getting into the car, he finds Castiel touching everything around him with fascination, the vinyl seat creaking pleasantly as he moves. He has such an awed look, Dean wishes he could get away with pulling out his phone and taking a picture.

“I had somehow forgotten that you owned this beautiful  _ chariot _ . Delightful, just delightful. I can’t wait to see how she drives.” The vinyl underneath him makes a satisfying sound as he settles back, watching Dean with half lidded eyes. “Take me home.” 

Swallowing thickly, he turns on the car and forces himself to drive at a reasonable pace. Every time he glances over, Castiel is watching him, his face mostly obscured by shadow. But Dean can see his eyes, blue and consuming. It makes him shiver. He itches to turn on the radio, just to drown out his own thoughts. As it is, under the silent intensity of Castiel’s gaze, Dean can only think about pulling over the car and getting into his space, pressing him into the opposite door with kisses, dragging him into the back seat. Every time Cas wants to get under Dean’s skin, he pitches his voice just so, and the directions he’s giving Dean to his house is in it now, low and rough. It’s fucking with him, but he isn’t sure he minds it.

An eternity later, he pulls up into Castiel’s driveway and cuts the engine. Looking at the house through his windshield, he muses, “You know, I’m not sure what I thought, but your house is - well, it’s very you.”

Castiel looks out at it. “What do you mean?”

Dean bites his lip. “Um...”

Castiel gives him a long look. Dean chuckles, nervous, running his hands through his hair.

“It’s really old, with an old-fashioned style, but it’s immaculate. I don’t think there’s anything out of place, at least on the outside. I’d bet a lot of money that the inside is the same.”

“You’ve been inside Gabriel’s apartment, however.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well. If you’d been inside my place and then Sammy’s, you’d never know we were related. Aside from the fact that we look nothing alike.”

Cas runs his fingers over the door handle, looking out the window. When he does eventually speak, his voice is low and inviting. “Would you like to come in, Dean? Perhaps make sure that there is no one lurking within to do me an injury?”

All Dean can do around the sudden lump in his throat is nod and hope that Cas can’t hear his heart beat. Bemused, Cas waits while he gets out and holds the door for him. On the porch, he waits while Dean goes inside the dark house alone, hand on his gun.

He adds a pocket flashlight to cross with his gun and moves to do a thorough check. Castiel’s hand on his arm makes him pause. 

“Alarm is still set. No one comes in without my knowledge.” 

Dean nods, a little disappointed that he won’t get to confront the guy, at least tonight. The look on Cas’ face as he’s tapping in the code for the alarm tells him that he’s not at all subtle about that either.

“Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee, Dean?” 

He turns lights on as they go, giving a better view. The hall has a beautiful bench with hooks, so Dean deposits his soaking wet coat there. Cas moves further into the house, but Dean stands and looks a moment at both coats sitting side by side, trying not to get snared into whatever the fuck is going on inside his head. Cas calls him from further in and he shakes his head, muttering to himself as he goes. He’s ridiculous and he’s going to screw this friendship up if he doesn’t chill out. 

He was right about the house, though, and he feels smug about that. Cas isn’t as inscrutable as he thinks he is. A rich, cherry wood stairway leads upstairs from the front hall and a closed door in the matching aged wood leads to a room to the right. It’s beautiful, immaculate. 

He spies a small bathroom tucked underneath the stairway and he slips inside, both because he needs to use it and because it offers an excuse to not follow Cas around for a minute. He washes his face and looks at himself in the mirror above the vintage pedestal sink, willing his pulse to even out. Maybe he should just politely say goodnight and leave... Castiel invited him in, though, and he could see that it wasn’t easy. Dammit, he’s an adult, he can sit and socialize without making a nuisance of himself.

Finally coming out, he follows the sound of Castiel’s voice into the living room. It’s reminiscent of his office, both in feel and style. A couch and two comfortable chairs face each other across a glass coffee table. Everything looks like it’s been handmade, sturdy, and beautiful in a masculine way. The shelves covering every inch of wall space are made of polished old wood, filled with books, some two-layers deep. One shelf has a cotton-candy pink stuffed rabbit sitting in front of the books. It’s out of place in a room with very little in the way of tchotchkes, and the sheer cheerful fluffiness of it is almost offensive.

A tray with two steaming mugs rests on the coffee table. Cas sits on the couch, one leg curled under himself, watching Dean closely. There’s something off about him that Dean can’t quite place until he’s crossed the room and is about to sit; Cas is uncertain. He’s only seen it once or twice, and it’s not a look that he likes on the professor. He clears his throat, sitting tentatively on the other side of the couch, hoping the distance will set him at ease. 

“Do you let your brother in here often, cause I’m not sure how he hasn’t destroyed this table yet.” 

Cas thaws with a smile, relaxing back into the soft cushions. “I do not. I think I can count about four separate instances where he’s insisted on coming here. I refuse to encourage the practice.” 

Dean picks up the mug nearest to him and sniffs it. The smell of tea is always something he loves, even if the actual taste of tea is nothing spectacular. With the mug, he gestures at the stuffed bunny on the shelf. 

Cas smiles. “Yes, alright. Gabriel gave me that, the one in my office, and two more upstairs. I had to go away for a conference and he scattered them around the house. I don’t have the fortitude to remove them, and it’s not a fight I care to win at any rate. Although, now they reside at every possible place with the addition to the office, so I hope he’ll stop.” 

Dean takes a careful sip of the hot liquid, surprised into a smile at the taste. “The fortitude?”

Rolling his eyes, Cas picks up his own mug, though he only holds it, warming his hands. “My brother is really insistent about them. Sometimes I think he just likes having as obnoxious a presence in my home as he can, knowing how I feel about other people being here. We no longer live together, but every day I am reminded of him. I’ve actually become fond of them, as a proxy.”

“Well, I’m honored that you’ve let me in.”

Cas looks him directly in the eyes. “Good. I’m gratified that you understand how much it means to ask you inside.”

Dean puts his mug down on the table, moving towards Castiel slowly, just in case he’s reading the signals wrong. He watches Dean approach, inhaling the citrusy scent of his tea. Waiting. He gets within touching distance before he loses his nerve and sits there. He feels untethered. Cas puts his own mug down on the table and raises an expectant eyebrow. 

“Castiel, I -”

Castiel leans forward to kiss him, light fingers tilting Dean’s head just so. It’s over in a second, a light brush of impossibly soft lips, but it sets his world on fire. Eyes closed, a quiet whimper escapes him. 

Cas deepens the kiss, pushing him back the way he came until Dean’s on his back. He kisses without reservation, running his hands through Dean’s hair, pulling gently. Every casually dropped comment about how Cas likes it when he lets it go long bounces wildly through his head.  _ Trained, trained, trained. _

Dean slides his hands up under Cas’ shirt, feeling the hot skin underneath, reveling in the moan he receives. Then Cas is straddling Dean, rocking a little, driving him insane. Castiel kisses him once more and then pulls up, lips hovering just inches from Dean’s where he waits for a moment, stroking the side of Dean’s face possessively. 

Dean tries to close the distance but finds he’s being held firmly in place. The heat from Castiel’s lips is maddening, an embarrassingly needy noise slips out before he can stop it. He’s rewarded with a kiss, whisper soft, mostly made of heat and promises, and then Cas is sitting up so he can look into Dean’s eyes.

Dean drowns in blue, lost in a haze of emotion and desire. Castiel stares, searching his face before speaking, his thumb caressing Dean’s lower lip. “Look at you. You make me want things… things I shouldn’t ask for.”

Dean feels wild, drunk, out of control. “Anything you want, Castiel. You can have anything.” 

Castiel’s eyes darken. “Tempting.” He noses down to kiss and bite Dean’s neck, up to his ear, where he whispers, “Foolish thing to simply promise.” 

His entire body shudders. “Not really. I trust you, and Castiel, I… honestly…”

Cas sits up to look in his eyes again, staring with an intensity that sends a thrill up Dean’s spine. “Look at me. Say what you mean, don’t hide it.”

His ass feels way too good nestled on Dean’s dick like that, so he shows his appreciation by gently rocking his hips. Castiel grinds down in response, a hitch in his breath, waiting impatiently for Dean to talk.

Fuck it, it’s now or never. “Castiel, I’ve been into you for years now. I think you knew that. Really into you. It’s so bad that I can’t really think of anyone else. I think, no, I know. I’m in lo-” 

The front door slams open and an angry Gabriel bursts in, yelling his brother’s name wildly. Cas’ head whips around, and for a second Dean catches a quick flash of fear in his face. There’s really no time to move before he comes barreling into the room, stopping short when he catches sight of the two of them on the couch. 

“Um… I heard some story about you getting attacked with a kn-Dean what are you doing?”

Cas gets off Dean and he sits on the end of the couch where he’d started, glaring. “Playing Monopoly.”

Gabe crosses his arms. “Can anyone join?”

Castiel makes an irritated noise. “Gabriel, I am fine. Someone slashed my tires, but I wasn’t even there.” 

“ _ Slashed your tires? _ And you’re here, playing house with Dean?! Shouldn’t you, I dunno, be someplace safe?”

Dean blinks. “Hey…”

“And where is that, Gabriel? Your house?” Castiel gathers up the tea tray and starts for the kitchen with Gabriel trailing behind like an angry cat. 

“Damn right! You should have called me!”

“Why interrupt what was undoubtedly a very sordid date, when I had a Detective at hand already. Be reasonable, Gabriel.” 

“Oh, you’re one to talk about sordid. And I saw what you had ‘ _ at hand’ _ . You could’ve been killed while you two were playing house!”

Their voices trail off into an indistinguishable muddle of raised angry back and forth as Gabe shuts the kitchen door behind them, leaving Dean alone in a disheveled pile on the couch. He sits for a minute. Then two. When it becomes five and they don’t seem to be stopping, he stands and fidgets. At ten, he decides that Castiel probably will want him to leave, but he doesn’t want to be rude. 

He goes to the kitchen door and hesitates there. He can make out Castiel’s tired drawl, but Gabriel sounds vicious and angry. He knocks and they go silent for a moment, as if they’re holding their breath. 

“I’m going to go, Professor,” Dean calls. “Sounds like you have things to work out with Gabe.” 

There’s nothing for a second and then Castiel opens the door. He looks tired and behind him, Gabriel looks sullen with red-rimmed tearful eyes. He’s guiltily mouthing ‘sorry’ behind Cas’ back.

“Of course. Thank you, Detective. Have a good evening.” Castiel’s face is stone, no trace of the creature he’d been on the couch. 

Dean nods, and because there’s nothing else to do, he leaves.

                                                                                                     *

Dean scrunches up his face, flipping open the box to grab another slice of pizza. “You’ve outdone yourself, Gabe. This is probably the worst film I’ve ever seen. And I’ll never think about the Muppets in quite the same way again.”

Gabriel snorts. He’s watching Dean instead of the movie, something he’s been ignoring for about an hour now. Gabe opens his mouth and Dean hits  _ pause. _

“Look, I appreciate you bringing this epically awful movie over, and that you didn’t object to pizza for dinner, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gabe starts, “I just wanted to apologize, I didn’t know-”

Dean holds up his hand to stop him. “I understand, I do. I’d burst in on Sammy, too, if he’d been the target of something violent and then didn’t answer his phone. I didn’t realize Castiel hadn’t actually called you when we got to his house, or I’d have expected it, I guess. How did you hear about it anyway?”

Gabriel looks sheepish. “Camille called me. There was some issue with the tow truck and I guess when campus security couldn’t get in touch with him, they called her since she’s listed as handling some of his phone calls.”

Dean shrugs one shoulder, staring at the remote, rubbing a thumb over the play button and longing for the conversation to be over. Gabe runs his hands through his hair and clears his throat.  _ Goddamit. _

“Look, you’re my best friend. I mean, I wouldn’t care if you were anyone else, but I love you, man. “

Dean gives him a narrow look. 

“I do, dammit. And I think you should know some stuff about my brother. He’s got a real allergy for commitment.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Listen, Dean, I just… don’t want you to take what happened too seriously. Cas tends to have these small, uh,  _ flings _ . He gets obsessed with some guy, and he really  _ wants _ to make it last, but he just ends up discarding them when he gets bored. I’m afraid you’d have a few nights of fun and then you wouldn’t be interesting to him anymore, and everything would get ruined. I just would hate to see you get hurt like that.”

Dean stiffens. “That doesn’t sound like Castiel.”

The look of pity on Gabe’s face makes him want to punch it. “That’s just not a side he shows often. You two have stayed at arm’s length. Hey, don’t get mad, I just don’t have a lotta friends, you know? I’m afraid that we’d drift apart if he just stopped talking to you.”

Dean sighs. “I wouldn’t stop talking to you if Cas just turned his back on me.”

Gabriel worries his lower lip with his teeth. “You might not mean to, but then he’d be all distant, and you’d start to feel resentful, and soon you’d take it out on me.”

He needs this conversation to end  _ now.  _

Dean smiles his biggest, fakest, most friendly smile, and claps Gabe on the shoulder. “No worries. You’re my friend forever. It was probably just something that happened in the heat of the moment anyhow. So! Let’s watch this weird ass Muppet porn you brought and get drunk.” 

With a slightly teary, relieved smile, Gabe toasts to that with his beer. Dean presses  _ play. _ Gabe seems relaxed and happy, but Dean feels like he’s been hollowed out.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s raining,  _ again. _ After hours standing in it, Dean’s back at the precinct, doing his best impression of a wet dog.

“I can  _ not _ wait for winter, at this rate,” he says, shaking his head, grinning at the yells of outrage when water sprays on everyone around him. “Also, waiting for the crime scene guys in freezing rain is not my idea of fun. What the hell kept them?”

Garth hands Dean a towel. “Old lady on Hollyhock Road got murdered for a cat.” 

Dean vigorously towels his hair. “Well, that’s… something else. I’d think a disemboweled guy hanging from a lamppost would take precedence.”

He’d waited forever in the rain, fending off looky-loos and reporters. They couldn’t even take the poor guy down until everything was processed. The image of this poor fucker in his club finery, hanging soaking and slick from a lamppost, slit from groin to chin, would be something he knew wouldn’t leave him for a long time. The best part was how the unsub had broken all the other lamps around it so that there was only one source of light against the gathering gloom - the pool of light with the body in it.

Jody comes out of her office. “Winchester! Come in here!”

Dean pulls his sodden clothing out with a question on his face. She just turns to go back through her office door. He sighs. Dry clothing later, then.

“Oooh, Dean’s in trouble!”

Dean glares and knocks the cowboy hat off Garth’s head on the way in. He tosses the towel on the leather chair in front of Jody’s desk, making a fuss of adjusting his wet clothing before he sits.

Once he’s in a chair, Jody gets right to it without any pleasantries. Never a good sign. “Before I get to the reason I called you in, I need to know - what does Novak say about this last body?” 

Dean coughs. “Look, I just got back. I haven’t talked to him about this, or the other bodies lately. Maybe he’s been busy?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You mean, he didn’t call you immediately? Problem with the Professor?”

“No, I just... I haven’t seen him. You know how teachers get. Grading. Teaching. Whatnot. ”

Jody looks at him. “You haven’t seen him. We’re talking about Professor Novak, Dean. If  _ you _ haven’t seen him lately, perhaps we should open a missing persons case?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. He’s wet down to his damn underwear, and this is not making anything better. “Do we really need him?”

“Do we need him? This is a real question coming out of your mouth right now? Yes, Dean,  _ we do _ . The FBI are definitely interested in this case, and the only thing that keeps our hand in this is Novak’s cooperation. Without him on our side, I’m afraid that we’ll be getting the Agency coffee instead of doing our jobs for the foreseeable future.”

“If the FBI are interested in this,” Dean tries desperately, “it means he’s out regardless. The last time he worked on something like this, he stopped eating or sleeping. He gets… obsessive. He’s already said that he’s out if it turns out to be a serial case.”

Jody leans back in her chair, sighing. “Well, they’re sending a team. Tell Professor Novak that they’ll be coming to talk to him so he’s prepared. If he decides to work with them, I’m thinking that he’ll want you to be his go-between, and… you’re making a face. What is this face?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “I’m honestly not so sure he will. Look, can I convince you to swap me out with Garth? Novak likes the work for its own sake, and I’m sure that Garth is capable.”

Jody looks at him for a long time before she shakes her head with a scowl. “Fine. Dismissed, go figure out who killed that old lady for her cat. And find a dry set of clothing for crying out loud! No one here needs to go through the pain in the ass of you when you’re sick. Oh, and Winchester? When you come back in here to ask to have it changed back, you’ll owe me one.” 

Biting back his response, Dean gets up and goes, making gross squishing noises as he walks. He plucks the file from Garth’s desk and goes in search of something dry to wear. This case will be a nice change from… everything. This will be fine. He’s not Cas’ damn… plaything.

                                                                                                         *

It is  _ not  _ fine. This cat-killer case was a slam dunk from the beginning, and not a challenge in the least. Her neighbor, a serial cat hoarder, has been taking pets from the surrounding neighborhoods for years. Watching animal control haul out cage after cage of purloined cats from the house, Dean reflects that he might’ve been happier with the creepy serial killer case, Cast- _ Professor Novak _ or not. His phone rings and he answers it with a sigh.

“How’s it going?” Jody’s voice is smug, and he hates her a little. “You know, I only ask because Officer Greenberg reports that you’re having trouble with the suspect.”

Dean looks to his left where several officers are chasing after a man clad only in a tin foil hat. Sliding in mud and leaves, he’s wily, screaming something about angels, a kitten held close to his chest. Greenberg leans against a patrol car, hand clapped to a bleeding scalp. 

“Greenberg’s a dirty snitch. Getting all up in arms about having to wrestle some naked guy. Dammit! Sorry, Captain, I have to go, the news is here.” 

They’d left their van parked down the street, so he hadn’t seen the reporter and her cameraperson until just now. Who knows how long they’ve been filming. Dean hangs up on Jody’s snicker. He spends a minute watching the guy run and figuring out his zig-zag pattern, and then gets himself on the six o’clock news calmly clotheslining a crazy naked man while mud covered officers scramble to keep up.

The inside of this nutjob’s house is a sight to behold. Weird symbols written in what Dean hopes aren’t bodily fluids, cover every wall and the backs of window shades. Books about the occult, angels in particular, cover the floors. Fur shed by at least twenty cats covers them, in turn. It feels close and claustrophobic, even when someone pulls a shade up to let in some light, fur and dust dancing in the weak blue glow of afternoon. Every bulb is burnt out.

Just after six, he’s changing out of his mud-covered clothes when the phone rings.

“Detective.” Dean’s unprepared for the shudder that chases up his spine, and he gasps. Dammit, he really needs to look at his phone to see who’s calling him. Eyes closed, he just breathes in the heavy chuckle from Castiel on the other end. 

“Imagine my surprise,” Castiel says dryly, “when your charming Captain informs me that you’ve been relegated to naked lunatic wrangling, and I am now working with Barney Fife.”

“You’re a psychiatrist, you sure calling him a lunatic is good form?” Dean holds onto the bench with his other hand, feeling like he might slip off the edge of the world. He feels as if he can breathe for the first time in days.

“Detective, my unprofessional behaviour should be the last of your worries. You must be hungry after your escapades today. Somehow, you seem to always be covered in mud. Come and meet me for dinner.” 

Dean means to say no, he truly does, but the tone in Castiel’s voice turns him into jelly. He’s already jonesing for even a look at the guy, and he meekly accepts, almost physically unable to say no to the invitation. 

He goes through the next hour in a daze, hardly registering anything up until the moment he’s actually in the restaurant looking for Cas. Then, suddenly, everything comes back into sharp focus. There’s a kind of background nervousness that gets soothed the second he sees the bottomless blue of Castiel’s eyes.

“Professor.” He smiles tentatively, sitting. “Castiel. Cas. Hey. What did you order for me?” 

Castiel leans back, swirling his wine glass. “I waited, of course.” 

The knot in his gut slowly relaxes. Castiel, his tone polite, but his eyes sharp and attentive, tells him a story about one of his students and Dean melts into the moment. The whole night is like this: inconsequential, fluffy, until just after dinner when Cas puts down the wine glass and looks him in the eyes. 

“Dean, I treasure our relationship.”

Caught off guard, Dean freezes.

“I must admit that I’ve become complacent over the years. I enjoy our time together. Have I offended you?”

Dean stares. Castiel looks back calmly. A beat goes by, and then another. Forcing himself to say something, anything, Dean stammers, “I - I thought you - With what happened. Look, Gabriel said…”

Castiel grimaces. It’s such an odd look on him that Dean stops talking, wrongfooted. 

“My brother-Neither of us have told you about our childhood. And while I don’t intend to do so, at least not now, I will say that it was... difficult. It’s made him overprotective and the night my tires were slashed, he regressed a little. We keep our lives as separate as possible, but he can still get very clingy and needy when things go wrong.

“Not that Gabriel would realize that, and he’d hotly deny everything if it was pointed out. My brother aside, I find myself…” Castiel paused, turning his head to the side and meeting Dean’s eyes. “Dean, I miss you. Our collaboration has been very important to me.”

Dean nods numbly. “Our collaboration.”

Castiel picks the wine glass back up, running one long finger over the edge, impossible to read. Dean clears his throat. Fine, dammit. He can live with everything being the way it was. At least he can talk to Cas.

“Yeah, well. That’s… I’ll ask Jody to fix it. If you haven’t already. Um, but the stuff we’ve been working on is FBI territory now, so, you’ll just have to wait for something new to come along.”

Amusement and relief flicker over Castiel’s face. “Fife told me about the FBI. I am so sorry to have missed the naked cat man, however. Perhaps the highlights over some coffee?” He signals the waiter. 

Settling into his seat with a laugh, Dean unravels the tale for him. He even orders pie to celebrate. He has a relationship with Cas again, and in any form, that’s a win.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean pours way too much sugar into his coffee, leaning up against the doorjamb to the breakroom. Truthfully, he’s crammed into the spot, sharing it with most of the rest of the detective squad as they watch Jody with the FBI. 

“I heard,” Garth says from behind him, “that they’re ignoring the sex club angle.” 

Dean turns around, only to collide with Garth’s new hat- a stupid blue ten-gallon thing that looks like it came out of an old technicolor musical about cowboys. He flicks it, eyeballing how the sequins catch the light.

Garth grins. “Like it? I got it for my anniversary. Let me tell you, nothing gets her going quite like the hat. You should get one.” 

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. “Can you just… what do you mean about the FBI?”

Garth blinks. “Oh! Yeah. Jody said to me that they think it’s a bust. Got some new guy running this division, he thinks the professor is a quack.”

“What happened to Henrikson?”

Garth shrugs. “I do not know. Gotta go, amigo, they’re sending me out for lunch.” 

Typical. Dean waits until the FBI gets settled before he goes to see Jody, sneaking around the knot of bad suits. Knocking once, he opens the door and escapes inside.

She isn’t impressed. “Can I help you, Detective?”

“Garth told me they’re throwing out all our work. What’s going on?”

“Ugh, I’m going to need a lot more coffee for this. But I don’t want to go back out there.” She looks forlornly into her empty mug. “The deal is that the new guy in charge hates the whole ‘creepy Lecter’ vibe you have going on with Professor Novak. He doesn’t think this is a sex club thing, and the unsub being an unassuming, small person is weird to him. So, they’re concentrating on clubs and other venues only.”

“Lecter vibe? Is that how he described it?”

“Winchester, it’s how everyone describes it. You just don’t see how creepy he is because you walk around in a lovesick haze around him.”

“He isn’t creepy.”

Jody snorts. “The lovesick part is okay, though.”

“Well, I just -”

“Can it. I don’t want to know, I don’t care. We have a whole pile of cases for you to solve, go and do that. Leave the FBI alone, Detective. That’s an order.”

He’s glared out of Jody’s office, and takes the rest of the afternoon as personal time. He has a lot to think about, and tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe he can talk it over with Charlie.

                                                                                                        *

Charlie snorts. “You mean you’re a little too old to be wearing the leather harness you wore as a twinky twenty-year-old.”

“Hey, now, no need to be mean. Look, I just want to fit in without attracting attention. Check the camera?”

Charlie fools with the laptop and gives a thumbs up. “Yeah, I mean you don’t want to be wearing the creepy sex club equivalent of bell bottoms.”

Balancing on the top of a rickety ladder, moving a security camera back and forth, Dean reflects that this was not how he’d envisioned this Saturday afternoon going.

“A little to the left.” Charlie, below him at a table, taps on her laptop, checking the camera feed’s angle. She’s about as far from the flamboyant persona she affects when she runs her club at night, wearing pajamas, her hair piled in untidy heaps on her head. Dean moves the camera to the left and she gives a thumbs up.

“Thanks for the help, Dean. You can install it right there.” She leans back to watch him attempt to juggle both the drill and the camera as he gets to work. He already knows not to ask if she’s going to help; it amuses her to see him struggle. What are friends for, after all?

“So, let me get what you asked for all untangled. You want me to help you blend in to the crowd at Blue Angel.”

He grunts an affirmative, drilling a hole in the plaster.

“The FBI don’t think that’s where these poor assholes are getting abducted from, but you… what, think differently? So you’re going to go and try to catch him by yourself?” 

Dean looks down at her, pausing the drill. Charlie raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“Not really. I just want to look around, see how easy it is to abduct someone from the club. I don’t think I’m going to catch this guy, but I do think the FBI is being myopic. They’re following a fake lead and won’t hear anything else.”

Charlie goes quiet and he’s almost done mounting the thing on the wall when she speaks again. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

Dean starts running the cables along the wall, neatly zip-tying them into bundles. “No. There’s nothing of interest there according to them, so I could claim I was going for fun. Except…”

Charlie grins. “Except that you have a tight t-shirt and jeans wardrobe when it comes to going out and Blue Angel has a dress code. I don’t get it, I thought you were in the scene.”

With a last twist, he finishes the job. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to anything resembling a leather bar or a private party. Also, I’ve - ah, filled out since then.”

Dean rolls his eyes, coming down the ladder. “There. Now you can see everyone who comes into the club from here, as well as the one pointing at the street.”

Charlie nods grimly. “If he takes any of my patrons, I’ll have a clear picture of him.”

She takes a few minutes with her laptop, adding the new camera to her already impressive security feed, and then stands, looking him over critically. “Well, I’ll dress you, but if you catch something there, that’s on you. I gotta ask, though, why couldn’t it be recreation too? It’s been a long time since you had some meaningless fun with a guy in a back room. You know, they got just your type in there. Strong, gorgeous, comes with chains and whips and a demanding attitude.”

Laughing, he sits and commandeers her drink. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know, Charlie. It’s been a long time since I really synced with someone like that.”

Charlie leans forward and looks into his eyes intently. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Oh for… Gabriel has a big damn mouth. It’s not like that. The professor and I work together, and things got a little out of hand one night. Emotions were high and it didn’t mean anything. Anyway, I’m not sure about the, uh, chains and whips… part.”

“Vanilla kind of guy?”

“No, there’s a-I guess you’d call it a vibe, a thread of something interesting. But I’d sure hate to ruin what we have by bringing it up and being  _ wrong. _ I’m not saying that the lack of that kind of dynamic would be a deal breaker, but…” He shrugs. 

Charlie nods slowly. “But you miss it. It’s been years since you’ve talked about anyone.” 

Dean laughs, the sound hollow. “Like an addict misses a fix, yeah.”

She gets up with a flourish, offering him her arm. “Well, then. Let’s make you all pretty so that some beautiful Dom will see you, fall in lust, and offer to paddle your ass till you can’t sit.”

Dean links his arms with her. He might be rolling his eyes, but inside there’s a shiver of excitement. She might be right - anything could happen.


	6. Chapter 6

Where most resort towns have family friendly boardwalks, this one is not known for its mini golf and ice cream parlors. Saturday night, in particular, is insane no matter what season it is. At least a dozen clubs jam together side by side down the long line of boardwalk, with Friday and Saturday nights being the most intense. The heavy beat of the music within each of them bleeds out, muffled, until doors open, letting a cacophony spill across the waiting lines of scantily clad clubgoers who mill about under the neon lights, casting bright colored lights out onto the beach

The clubs range from ‘fun’ to ‘retro’ to ‘meat-market’, and cater mostly to the LGBTQ crowd, any of whom have travelled miles for a weekend spent in a laid back, open minded town. Dean moves past all of them, headed for the alley between Krave and the building that houses Blue Angel. He walks with a swagger that’s mostly to psych himself up, ignoring heated looks from men waiting to get into Krave. Charlie had dressed him in soft leather pants and a mesh shirt; he likes the shirt because it does amazing things for his muscles in the right light. He’s even rescued his old pair of ass-kicker boots from the back of the closet. For one night, the rain has let up, but the cold wind ruffles his hair and is merciless through the shirt. It blows sand and smells of the ocean.

The entrance to Blue Angel is in the alley, down a stairwell. It’s lit with dramatic blue lighting and the door has a sliding window like a speakeasy. Beyond it is a small foyer with a receptionist. In order to not be shut down, each person who enters needs to pay for a one night ‘membership’ if they don’t want to actually join the club. They show their ID, read and sign the warnings. Catching sight of himself one of the mirrors behind the desk, he hardly recognizes his own face. Charlie, insisting that it was her right, had put some eyeliner on him and gelled his hair into something softer looking, keeping him still for it by insisting that he looks like Captain Kirk. He isn’t sure about that one, but he secretly likes the look.

Passing clothing and ID inspection, paying his fee, the bouncer opens the black door embossed with metallic blue wings to let him into the club. This first area is the main bar and club for Blue Angel. The receptionist had explained to him that this area is less intense, sometimes used for a cool down, a place to start the night, or as a place for those interested in a casual, accepting environment.

All the same, the atmosphere is charged with sexual tension, the crowd writhing together on the dance floor to a pulsing beat that never seems to end. It’s impossible to pick out individual faces, only bodies twisted together, caught in near ecstasy.

The bar stands out like a beacon in the back, lit a bright white from within. An impossibly tall and slender man dressed all in silver with long glittery eyelashes tends it. Dean weaves his way there and sits for a while, nursing a drink and watching the room. 

Honestly, it would be easy to blend in here, especially if you were harmless looking. Anyone beautiful or especially muscled gets a lot of attention. As for removing someone, people are slipping off into a nearby hallway in a steady trickle. Then there are the ‘angels’, staff members wearing angel-wing pins. They distribute condoms, make sure everyone is respecting consent, and help the truly inebriated out to waiting cabs on the street. Someone in that position wouldn’t even be questioned. Dean wonders if there’s a door out in the back.

Getting the bartender’s attention, he asks, “What’s that hallway?”

Glittered lips smile; he has startlingly sharp teeth. “That leads deeper, newbie. All the really interesting things happen  _ in _ the hall and  _ after  _ the hall. You should try it.” He quirks a challenging eyebrow at Dean. 

Fine, he can do that. He should get a look at everything. All the same, the predatory look the bartender gives him on his way there is unsettling.

The hallway, made to twist and bend in on itself, seems to go forever. It’s lit with soft blue lights that make weird shadows out of everyone’s faces whenever you can actually see them. A constant muffled beat from the dance floor thrums with his heartbeat, the press of bodies hot and urgent. Hands grope him. Disconnected moans whisper by his ears as he pushes by, walks into, or steps on several people fucking up against the walls. By the time he finds the exit, he’s turned on and disgusted and feeling slightly high. 

All at once the hallway opens up, and the change is so sudden that he stumbles on the way out. There’s no dance floor here, instead the dimly lit room is filled with low soft seats. Its filled with people sitting, drinking, and talking right next to people who are having sex either on the same couches or on the floor. What look like smaller private rooms range around the edges. He really needs a drink, and thankfully, the bar is easy to spot. Unlike the other room, this one is made of old wood, highly polished. 

The bartender, resplendent in purple velvet, leans on his elbows as he slides his drink over. He waits there, looking at him patiently. 

Dean looks up into his eyes. His pupils are huge, framed with pretty eyelashes. Another time, Dean might have tried to kiss those lips. Someone should.

“I thought I knew what I was coming in here for, but I was not prepared for…”

“Everything? It can feel like an odd dream or a movie at first. And if you want it to stay that way, you can. But, can I make an observation?” He tops off Dean’s drink.

Dean sighs and waves his hand. “Be my guest.”

“You have the look of someone who has lost a vice they really needed.”

Dean feigns disinterest, picking at the bar napkin restlessly. 

“I’ve seen hundreds of people come through here, my friend, and I know someone with a craving for something special.” He nods over at a door covered with a curtain. “Go take a look. It’s a performance, so it’s safe. I think that you’ll love it.”

Dean downs the rest of his drink all at once. He feels overexposed and lost, and his first instinct is to go home instead. His motives for coming here are suspect at best, and he feels like one live nerve. Warring with that, though, is the nagging spark that he’d really like to see what this guy thinks is so interesting. 

Giving a tight nod, Dean gets up and goes over to the curtain, ignoring the feel of those beautiful eyes watching him and burning into his back.

The curtain is heavy and smells a little like dust as he passes through into a mostly dark room. It’s a comfortable gloom, in that he can make out and avoid running into the audience spread out on their soft lounge chairs as he searches for a place to sit and watch the performance. 

On the low stage, an entirely nude man has been strapped to a Saint Andrew’s cross, facing away from the audience. It’s tipped to support his entire weight so that his legs can be spread wide. His back is covered in long red welts, a gift from the other man on the stage. Naked to the waist, his black hair is messy and plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. There’s something about him that makes his skin prickle with want, and Dean wishes he could see his face. 

The man paces back and forth, tapping the handle of his whip against his thigh while pondering the sub. Dean is reminded of a poisonous snake he saw once, captured behind glass, in control but furious and hungry for violence. He had meant to lurk in the back, but before he really understands what he’s doing, he finds himself sneaking forward through the crowd, carefully trying not to disturb anyone, and curling up on a chair right in front. 

The dom bends forward and grabs the sub by the back of the hair, pulling his head back to whisper. He whimpers and shakes his head, but the dom murmurs words of praise that float barely heard to the audience, encouraging him, promising rewards if he can only take what he’s given. Head hanging, the sub nods, gulping down sobs. 

The dom bends down to kiss him on his head, and then he beats the sub on the cross mercilessly, his body like a living extension of the whip in his hand. Dean is mesmerized, harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, unable to breathe. 

Cruel and loving his hands caress raised and angry flesh, long fingers precise and delicate. Then, when the sub looks like he can’t take much more, the dom touches him with two fingers on the shoulder, telling him how good he’s been, and Dean’s heart leaps into his throat. 

Dean can feel that touch like a brand on his own skin, flashing through every time he’d been told what to do, each time he’d pleased Castiel and received the gesture. He wants to run, but he can’t. 

It’s Castiel. 

It can’t be. It  _ must _ be. Dean twists his hands together, unable to move. The dom nods to the club attendant sitting to one side, who comes to help the man on the cross. Satisfied that is well in hand, he turns around to look at the crowd, eyebrow raised imperiously.

Castiel is so beautiful. The soft leather pants he’s wearing cling to his hips and muscular thighs, his arms are strong and cruel. He looks like an impatient god, surveying the crowd for someone good enough to hurt.

Dean panics. There’s nowhere to run, and indeed, he’s already been spotted. They lock eyes. Dean forgets to breathe as Castiel gives him a long, searching look. Dean bites his lips hard enough to draw blood, trying desperately not to speak, not to give away his urgent and all-consuming  _ want,  _ but he’s always been an open book to Cas.

A twitch of a smile, and Castiel holds out his hand in invitation, eyes darkening at the long audible moan Dean lets out. Dean’s hands tighten on the chair. He doesn’t move. He’s probably dreaming, at home with a raging fever. There’s no way the universe is this generous.

“Dean, come here.” Castiel’s tone brooks no refusal. As he obeys, rising to take Cas’ hand, Dean is distantly glad he didn’t get called  _ Detective _ . 

There’s a smattering of applause, which Castiel ignores completely. The original occupant of the cross is gone now, and the attendant cleans it quickly with a spray and clean cloth.

Waiting, Castiel tracks his eyes greedily over Dean, pupils blown wide. He looks almost delirious, cheeks and skin flushed. “Strip,” he orders, “all the way.”

Dean swallows roughly, eyes darting to the crowd of people watching. Castiel takes his chin firmly in one hand and tilts his head so he can only look into Cas’ eyes. 

“There is no one here but me.” His voice is liquid vice. “You are mine now, and no one else in the world exists but me. Do as I say, Dean.” Then he touches two fingers to Dean’s shoulder, and it occurs to him that he would follow Castiel into hell if he would only ask. 

So, he strips. There’s nothing flirtatious or showy about it; he needs his clothing off immediately. Castiel still seems to find it captivating, the greedy and impatient look in his eyes make Dean’s fingers clumsy. Distantly, he feels like he should be more embarrassed by his raging, leaking erection, but the murmur of appreciation in the crowd just feeds his excitement. Castiel takes Dean’s hand in his and leads him to the cross.

Turned to face it, one wrist buckled. Castiel’s fingers tracing over his wrist, his arm, leaning to place a gentle bite on the nape of his neck, lips against his skin smiling when Dean shivers, bucking. Second wrist buckled, Dean pulling a little to enjoy the feel of the cuff. Legs spread. One ankle, and then the other. The cross is tipped to hold his weight, and he’s bound. He hangs his head, slipping into the sweet sensation of surrender. Castiel’s lips against his ear kiss and whisper. 

“Good. Very good. Have you done this before?”

Dean nods, coughs, finds his voice. “Yes, sir.”

There’s a low sound of approval. “Safe words tonight - Green, yellow, red. Save the  _ sir _ for another night. Castiel will do. Tell me if you understand.” 

_ Another night - holy shit.  _ Dean nods, whispering, “Green, yellow, red. I understand, s-Castiel.”

“Good, very good, Dean. Color now?”

“Green,  _ Castiel, please _ !” Dean pulls on the cuffs in agitation. 

He starts with a paddle, hitting him in the ass gently, testing him. It isn’t nearly what Dean knows he can take, but it’s the first time someone’s done this in forever, and each smack sends electric thrills through him. Once his ass is rosy, Castiel switches to a flogger, showing it to him and asking his color. Green, green, green.

At first he uses the big flogger for the thud. It feels good, and then it hurts, and that feels amazing. When Castiel switches to the smaller one, the painful one, he cries out for more, his body shuddering from a pleasure he hasn’t felt in years. Still, he knows that Cas is taking it easy. He doesn’t want that. 

Castiel makes him count the lashes, pulling his attention to each one, focusing him on the pain. He’s laughing when Castiel asks how he is, calling out, “Green, Castiel, green. Super… super fucking green, c’mon is that all you have?”

Castiel, grinning like a devil, stops taking it easy, switching to the whip. The next strike makes Dean cry out in sheer joy, and the one after, and so on until the pain sets him free. It feels just like taking the Impala out to a long road and breaking through the speed of sound.

Floating in a haze of endorphins and lust, time dilates. The world shrinks down to Castiel’s voice, the smell of the leather, and the narrow strip of fire cutting into his body. He’s in so much delicious pain, every strike of the lash sends a thrill of ecstasy through him, and all he can call out is  _ green, Castiel, green _ . He’ll take everything he’s given. He knows he will, because Castiel told him so. 

One kiss would undo him. He’s begging for it, sobbing for it, but now Castiel won’t even touch him. The whip alone carries Cas’ affection to his skin, and he needs more. No matter how he asks; sweetly requests, begging, sobbing - nothing works. Stroke after stroke, Dean’s lost count. He’s in ecstasy, but he just wants, he needs one touch. Castiel refuses yet again, and suddenly it’s too much. He starts begging and can’t stop, tears streaming down his face as he pulls and yanks at the cuffs. Distantly, he knows he should be calling Red, but he can’t quite make words form. That’s okay, because Castiel can read his mind.

He’s a good boy. He’s perfect. He knows, because Castiel has his face in his hands, talking to him softly while someone else takes the buckles off. Castiel’s eyes are the blue of a frozen pond in winter and Dean will willingly drown if he’s asked. 

No matter how much he begs, Cas won’t kiss him. But he takes Dean to a soft couch and covers him with something warm, brings him water and strokes his face in between each sip. Slowly he comes back to himself, cradled in Castiel’s arms sweetly. 

“You don’t even know how perfect you are, Dean. So beautiful, obedient, taking everything I give you.” 

He helps Dean get dressed, stroking him and kissing his hair. Then he helps him out onto the street through a back door hidden behind the stage. The door feels important somehow, but Dean loses the thought with Castiel’s strong arm wrapped around his hip, helping him to a car. Driving him home. 

His bed is soft and Cas is gently washing his back, leaving small kisses in the wake of a warm washcloth. Dean mumbles nonsense words of affection, so tired, slipping into sleep, cradled in gentleness. 

That night, his dreams are like a fragmented mirror; Castiel is reflected in each piece, watching Dean struggle and cut himself on the jagged puzzle, watching him bleed with black expressionless eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up late Sunday morning, groggy and in need of a very hot shower. The haze surrounding what happened the night before gets wiped away quickly once the hot water touches his back. Grimacing, he makes it a quick affair. Once out of the shower, twisting to see himself in the bathroom mirror, he can see that the hot water has raised the welts on his back and ass to a nice bright pink. He loves them, but sadly, they’re already fading. He can also see the dopey, happy smile on his face, but can’t seem to shake it. The doorbell rings and he puts on a pair of sweats to answer it, stupid look and all. 

When he gets there, Gabriel is halfway through the door already. He passes Dean a package. 

“Found that on your doorstep, Deano. Are you just getting up now? Hungover maybe?” He swans in, leaving the door open. Dean closes it with a roll of his eyes, following Gabe as he heads into the kitchen. He puts the box on the table and heads for the coffee machine.

“I feel like I’m going to need caffeine for whatever has your ass up this morning. Want some?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

Dean eyeballs him while he grinds the beans. Gabriel paces back and forth, looking agitated. Dean waits until the coffee machine is chugging away, trying to think of what to say to him. Turning, Gabe’s eyes are on his torso, narrowed. Right, the marks on his back. He probably should’ve put on a shirt.

When he opens his mouth to talk, Gabriel interrupts, “Are you seriously telling me that you just woke up? Have you eaten?”

Dean blinks. “Uh, no, I haven’t. Literally just got out of the shower when you showed up.” 

Gabriel nods, waving him away from the counter. “Sit, sit, I got this.”

Dean sits, watching as Gabe rifles through his fridge and comes up with the ingredients to an omelet. He didn’t even know he had eggs, much less… what is that, a pepper? Gabriel is quiet as he chops peppers and onions and Dean lets him be. He can see wheels turning, and the guy isn’t great at interruptions and regaining his train of thought.

Once he’s sauteing onions, Gabe asks, in this fake nonchalant voice, “So, how was Blue Angel?”

Dean watches him closely. “I think you already know how that went.” 

Gabe grinds his teeth, pushing onions around the pan.

“I mean, we had a talk about this.”

“Well, I didn’t know he’d be there. And you were the one who sent me there… I can’t help but think you did it on purpose.” 

The peppers get thrown into the pan a little harder than necessary. One bounces out and lands on the floor. Dean bends over to grab it and toss it in the garbage. When he straightens up, Gabe is in his space, too close for comfort. Dean takes a step back. 

“Well, yes. Originally it was funny. I thought you’d have a little heart attack and run away. Not… not…” He gestures vaguely at Dean.

“We didn’t have sex, Gabe!”

Gabriel grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him close, hissing, “No, you let him beat you which is better than sex for him. It’s a sickness, Dean. He’ll get obsessed and then you’ll break his heart.”

“A sickness? C’mon, Gabe, you know better…”

Dean yanks hard, setting himself free, backing away. Gabriel follows him, the look on his face is strange, desperate and off kilter. Dean moves away again but the kitchen is small. 

“Don’t. This is my brother, dammit. You don’t understand how he gets!” 

Dean trips on his own feet, knocking himself off balance, and his hip comes up against the table. Dean flails a little and ends up knocking the package onto the floor. There’s an audible bursting sound from inside it and then it starts to leak red. They both stare at it for a beat before they start talking at once.

“Dean is that blood-”

“Holy fucking crap-”

The pool of red keeps spreading. Gabriel squeaks and backs away from it, banging into the stove and nearly burning himself on the hot pan. He makes a high-pitched squeaking noise and starts to freak out, seemingly unable to figure out how to get away from the creeping red spreading towards his feet without setting himself on fire. Dean shakes himself out of it, putting on his ‘cop voice’ to get Gabriel’s attention. He can’t reach his friend without walking through the… whatever it is. 

“Gabriel! Turn off the stove and come into the living room.” He looks up, sees Gabriel frozen and raises his voice, “ _ Now, Gabe! _ ”

Startled into action, Gabe does as he’s told and flees the kitchen with Dean skirting around the other way and following him. With both of them in the living room, he tries to find his phone and calm his friend down at the same time. All he can manage is getting Gabe to sit and breathe, head between his knees. He’s forced to finally call Jody from Gabe’s phone and when he hangs up, Gabriel is back to mostly normal, though he's still clearly freaked out, unable to sit still. He paces back and forth, peering into the kitchen restlessly on each turn.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?”

“I honestly have no idea but the crime scene unit is on its way, so don’t worry. It’ll probably be nothing.”

“My  _ God _ , you are a bad liar. This, this is why you lose every single game night. Any game that requires strategy, you just suck. I can read you at a thousand paces, brother.” 

Impulsively, he pulls Gabe into a quick hug. “Brother, that’s a good word. That’s the right word. Hey, don’t worry about Castiel. We’ll work this out, I promise.” 

Gabe laughs nervously, looking at the carpet and rocking back on his heels. “I’m sorry. Over protective, worry too much. About both of you, really. I can get stupid sometimes. I - I don’t have a lot of real friends. I’m just so afraid of losing either one of you.” 

There’s a pause, and he asks, “Is... um... Garth coming?”

Dean grins. “Yes. Sadly, you can’t leave. They’re going to need to take your fingerprints since you picked it up off the doorstep.” 

“I’m sorry. Garth is a good guy, but if I have to hear one more dad joke from that guy - I’m not sure I can take it with that… that package just sitting over there.”

Apparently, a bloody box showing up at a cop’s house takes instant priority, because  _ everyone _ shows up, and they are super fast, too. Crime scene techs come, along with Garth  _ and _ Jody. After an eternity of fooling around with fingerprints and picture taking, eventually they open the package. Carefully. When nothing explodes, everyone crowds around the box, peering in.

“Well, I’ll be.” Garth pushes his hat back off his forehead a little. “I gotta think that that there’s a finger, Captain.” 

Jody points. “And an eyeball.”

One of the tech nods. “And the remains of a sandwich baggie filled with blood.”

“An  **_eyeball_ ** _?! _ ” Gabe shouts from the door, straining to see in. Jody wouldn’t let him back into the kitchen, no matter what he tried. “What the actual fuck?”

“Now, that’s a good question,” Jody says, her eyes dark and furious. “What the fuck indeed. Get dressed, Winchester. We have a lot of thinking to do, but we’re not doing it here. And call your professor friend.” 

“I can’t.” At her raised eyebrow, he amends, “I mean, I  _ can _ , but I can’t find my phone. I’ll have to do it from my desk.” 

She stares at him. “Your phone is missing. Since when?”

“Well, uh, I went out last night, but I don’t quite remember coming home. It’s probably at the club, stuck to the floor.”

Jody shakes her head. Dean thinks about her quietly tense expression the entire time he gets dressed and while he’s escorting a quiet shaken Gabriel to the precinct. 

Getting to the station is easy, everything after that is a quickly moving blur, and he’s not really able to call Castiel for about an hour. He gives his statement to Garth and kicks out the guy taking Gabriel’s fingerprints to do it himself, sitting with his friend while he gives his own statement. The FBI show up about halfway through and demand that Dean do it all over again. They’re condescending and rude, so he sneaks out during a break. He avoids as many people as he can, weaving through everyone with a beeline to Jody’s office. Pulling down the shades somewhat desperately and sitting in her chair, he revels in the quiet. He picks up her phone and dials Castiel’s number.

“Professor Novak.” His tone is strangely businesslike and Dean is temporarily wrongfooted until he remembers he’s not on his own phone. 

“Uhm... Cas.”

“Dean!” His tone warms immediately, though it’s tinged with concern. “I’ve been calling you. The, ah, radio said something about trouble at your house.” 

Radio? Oh - “You’re grading papers again. I don’t understand how the police band isn’t distracting.” 

“Detective.” The tone is a warning, a subtle command for him to get to the point. He gets a secret, delicious, thrill from it.

“Sorry. Sorry. Someone left a package on my doorstep with body parts in it. Gabe and I discovered it just before breakfast, appetizingly enough. And my phone is missing.” 

There’s a lot of rustling of paper over the line. Cas yells away from the receiver for Camille to come and grade the rest. Dean can just barely hear her surprised answer. She might well be surprised, Dean thinks, Castiel never farms that duty out to his T.A.’s, no matter how swamped he is. 

Cas murmurs, “I will be there directly.” 

“Cas, no, you don’t need to, I’m alright...” He isn’t, he suddenly realizes, at all ‘alright’. He wants to take that back. His slow brain reminds him also that Jody wanted him here, she told him to call. Belatedly, he realizes that everything is starting to sink in, and he feels like he’s wading in molasses.

“Dean Winchester. I will be there as fast as I am able to, without courting imprisonment. You will wait there for me to arrive, and you will cease pretending that you can bear this alone.” There’s an expectant silence.

“Yes. Right, okay, that makes sense. I’ll be right here. Thank… um, thank you.”

There’s a quiet sound of approval and then the line goes dead. He feels like an idiot, like he just basically called for help. Cas must think he’s a moron. All the same, he does sit there, grateful for the silence and solitude until the door flies open to admit Jody and, of all people, his brother. The profound feeling of relief that washes over him spreads a grin over his face, and he stands up with a bounce.

Sam, dapper in his tailored suit, looks a hundred times better than every one of those other FBI creeps outside. He pauses in the doorway, anxiously looking Dean over. Dean gives him a cheesy thumbs-up, which just makes him snort and cross his arms. Behind them, a lab tech is trying to get into the room. Jody elbows Sam. 

“In or out, man-mountain. We can’t get through.”

Sam laughs, vacating the doorway to stride up to Dean and give him a crushing hug complete with manly back slapping. “What the fuck have you been doing with yourself, big brother? You’ve caused quite the stir out there.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He bounces on his toes, hoping to dispel his jitters. “Look, I don’t know who those tools are, but Cas and I prepared a really stellar case for them to take and run with. It’s not  _ my  _ fault they can’t do their jobs.”

Dean catches the quick expression on Sam’s face at the mention of Castiel. He’s always disliked the guy to the point of hostility, no matter how many times Dean’s tried to talk him up.

Jody sighs. “Can we, maybe, move on?” Irritably, she looks at the forensic tech, Kevin, and makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture. 

Kevin coughs. “Um. Right. Detective. So, a few things… What we originally took to be a burst sandwich bag, was in fact a condom filled to the breaking point with blood and left inside the box.” 

Sam blanches. “A condom filled with blood? Why?”

“So it would burst, we think. Any rough handling of the box would’ve done it. It’s a miracle the unsub didn’t break it on the way over.”

The three of them look at each other, but Kevin isn’t finished. “The condom is branded, actually. The Blue Angel has them made specially with a logo. This one is from a recent batch and he left the wrapper in for us. Considerate, really.”

“It’s a message,” Dean says at the same time as Castiel, who is framed in the doorway. Dean ducks his head to hide a smile. Sam scowls hard enough to burst a blood vessel.

Castiel comes in and stands next to Dean, eyeing him carefully as he does so. “The unsub wanted you to know that he was in the Blue Angel last night. Watching Dean.”

Sam grinds out, “Where were  _ you _ last night, Professor Novak?”

Dean takes an impulsive step forward, an angry retort on his lips, but Castiel stops him with a light touch to his shoulder. The scowl on Sam’s face gets angrier. “I was there also, a fact that I believe you already knew, Samuel.”

Sam clenches his jaw. “You’re right, I did. Where have you been since then?”

Before he can respond, Castiel’s phone makes a pleasant noise. Digging it out of his pocket, he looks at the screen and stiffens. “This may be of interest to you, Agent Winchester.” 

Sam takes it and looks. “It’s a message from Dean’s phone. With an address.”

Jody grabs her keys. “Sounds like we have an invitation to a party, gentlemen. Have your boys meet us outside, Agent.”


	8. Chapter 8

Dean is desperate to speak to Castiel alone, but Sam corrals them into his SUV instead. All the same, they sit close, legs pressed together. Castiel’s hand, sure and steady, rests on his own. 

The FBI contingent, all rocking the same sleek black SUVS, seems to know where they’re headed. As they drive, déjà vu slowly overtakes Dean. They head past the University’s old campus, where the once venerable and stately homes surrounding it have been carved into tiny crappy apartments. Students live crammed together in what the locals not so fondly call ‘student slums’. No one lurks in the rain soaked streets, or on porches, a freezing wind kicking up old dead leaves. The caravan stops in front of a house, boarded up and dark, brooding at the dead end of the street. 

Dean stares. He’s hit with the sight of the place like a truck. People are getting ready to enter the place, to do their jobs, and he’s struck suddenly with how  _ personal _ this all is. 

Castiel coaxes him out of it, his voice firm and gentle. “This place means something to you.”

“I went to school here,” Dean just starts talking, as if the memory isn’t being scoured out of him with every word. “My first year was a blur, but the second was... I guess you’d call it an awakening.”

“I met a guy. It didn’t... go well. At, um, at home.”

Sam snorts. “Understatement of the year.”

Dean swallows hard. “Yes. Well. After we’d been going out a while, he was… ah.” 

He chances a look at Sam, who rolls his eyes and makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

“Dude. I know you like to get tied up and all that bullshit. We can talk about it later if you honestly want to, but right now assume I couldn't care less about it. Just say it,” he prompts impatiently. 

“Fine, he was my first dom, okay?” Dean glanced in the mirror, catching Castiel’s eyes for a moment before turning back to look at the building. He cleared his throat and continued, “But he was more than that, cause it was an awakening, like a whole life change. He wasn’t a good dom, and there were some things that were a little shady, but it moved my perspective pretty drastically. This was the house he and his friends lived in. Eventually I moved in and when he graduated, we broke up. It hit me hard and I just lost interest in school and travelled for a while.” 

Everyone looks at the building. 

“Creepy,” Sam says. 

Dean snickers, which turns into a laugh, and then he’s laughing too hard to stop, covering his face with his hand. Gasping for air, he punches his brother in the arm.

Sam grins. “Well, it is. Fuck, Dean, you pick some real winners. The killer has to be some old boyfriend, right?”

Dean squawks. “Now, wait just a minute. Me?! Your girlfriend in Stanford set fire to your apartment. And _then…_ ” Sam tries to talk, Dean talking over him, “Oh ho, no no, do not forget Ruby, she was the skankiest piece of work…” 

Sam flicks him and Dean punches him again lightly. There’s a bit of a scuffle, rocking the SUV before they settle down. It feels good, having Sam here. He feels centered. Castiel is watching them with a faint smile. 

Sobering up, Sam eyeballs him. “You’re going to have to tell me this guy’s name, though, so we can at least run him through the system.” 

Dean is giving Sam as many details as he can remember when Jody pulls up with the rest of the FBI, ranting about labyrinthine residential streets. They all pile out of the car to join them. There’s about ten minutes of confusion as everyone gears up, and then they go into the building, guns out. They find what they’re looking for almost immediately in the living room right off the main hallway. One of the local cops pushes back out of the building immediately, retching. 

Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder and holds it in a vise-like grip, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer under his breath.

“Well, that’s not something you see every day,” Dean says numbly. He’d been to and processed every other crime scene, even the disemboweled guy. Each one had been staged a bit for effect but this is something else entirely.

The room is pitch black except for a pool of warm light. The corpse basks in it, sitting on an ancient and rotting couch, head thrown back; caught forever in a tableau of frozen ecstasy. Still mostly dressed in a bloodstained purple suit, one hand is wrapped around his dick while the other is draped along the back of the couch as if inviting someone to come close and rest their head on his shoulder. 

From the door, Dean can clearly see that he’s missing a finger and an eye. A garotte is twisted so tightly around his neck that it’s embedded in the muscle. Peeking out from his vest pocket is an envelope about the size and shape of a greeting card.

They’ve brought FBI crime scene techs with them, and though the vignette gives them pause for a second, it doesn’t seem to faze them much as they gather together to discuss procedure and a game plan. They start to head in, but Castiel stops them at the door.

“This was meant for Dean to see. Can he go in first to look without interference?”

Sam’s face sours. “He can see it from here.”

Castiel just looks at Sam. The two of them stare at each other long enough for everyone else to get uncomfortable. Jody clears her throat pointedly. Eyes narrowed in mistrust, Sam simply gestures for them to go ahead. While Jody and Sam talk to the crime scene guys, Cas pulls Dean aside to talk. 

Standing so close that Dean could reach out and touch him if he dared, he speaks in a low voice, pinning him in place with a look. The crime scene behind him, the heated gaze in front of him, Dean’s dick is confused and it makes his stomach roll a little.

“From here, you can see how sadistic this is, but up close, your senses may be overwhelmed. I know that you’re used to crime scenes, corpses and the monstrous disposition of man, but the personal nature of this particular spectacle will begin to weigh on you. 

“Know that I’m right behind you and that you’re safe. You can leave at any time, but I encourage you to attempt to stay as long as you’re able. He made this for you specifically. If there’s a message for you here, there is no one else qualified to see it.” 

Looking into Dean’s eyes, Cas touches his shoulder, saying firmly, “Now, we should go in the room before Sam changes his mind.” 

Obediently, in a bit of a haze, Dean walks into the room. Slowly, he crouches next to the couch. Being in the pool of light makes him vulnerable, as if he’s on stage. It’s stripping, but he tries to concentrate on the job in front of him. All the same, he breathes fast and shallow, hands shaking. 

“It feels like a stage.” He shivers.

“Yes, good. What else?” Castiel says. His voice refocuses Dean’s attention.

_ Get it together, Winchester. What can you see?  _ He pulls the cop back out of himself and really starts looking. He inches closer, looking at the remains of the once flamboyantly beautiful suit. He takes a pen out of his pocket and gestures with it. 

“Blood spatter. The victim probably died because of the garotte and there’s no other wounds on him. The unsub removed the finger and the eyes easily, no ragged edges.” 

“Expert with a knife,” Castiel murmurs behind him, close. 

“Y-yes, but where’s the extra blood coming from? He was strangled. If the blood in the box I got is the victim’s, was he stabbed and then, I don’t know re-dressed? Is there another victim? Did the unsub get hurt somehow?”

“What else.”

“Vic’s a really big guy. Muscular. I think this supports the average person theory.”

“Why, Dean. Couldn’t he have been drugged?” Castiel’s voice is soft and warm, full of praise. Some of Dean’s unease fades away at how right this feels. It’s just like being in his office.

“Because his dick is hard. He was in the middle of it when this guy surprised him with the garotte. No one is going to let a big scary guy get behind them in an abandoned house, but a regular guy, especially if you’re stronger than him… Anyway, he might’ve been drugged, but if he was, I think the victim would’ve taken it on his own. You don’t dress like this and not know how to take care of yourself. ” 

Dean stands, turning around to look at Cas. “The eye and finger were for me, and there’s probably a note in that card. This all feels so, so random. I don’t get it.”

“That’s because you’re missing a component.” Cas has the look he gets often, a  _ professorial _ look. He has it every time he’s seen something that Dean hasn’t, and he’s about to guide him in the right direction. Dean gets riled up every time he does it and now is no exception, but it’s weird, having a raging erection at a crime scene; he feels on edge. He bounces on his toes a little, his skin crawling, and then he suddenly gets it. 

“Oh, holy crap.  _ I know who this guy is _ . This is really  _ is  _ about…”

That damn faint smile and eyebrow. “Indeed. It’s a reference to your second sexual awakening, because?”

“Because this is the bartender who pointed out your performance-” 

“After which followed-”

“-my time on stage with you-”

“-which either makes him angry or aroused.”

“Or both, maybe…”

Sam holds up a hand. “Okay, creepy twins, enough. This is a bartender that you both know?”

They nod in unison which makes Sam scowl. Behind him, Jody tries to hide a smirk. Guided by a light touch to the small of his back, Dean comes out of the room with a nod to the crime scene techs. They scurry in, giving both he and Castiel a wide berth.

“Sam, he’s a bartender at The Blue Angel. He pointed me to the room where Cas was performing the other night.” 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, I don’t want to know, but I have a feeling that I have to.” 

Castiel comes up behind Dean, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Dean needs to sit in the car for a few minutes, Sam.” 

He scowls. “What? He does not.” 

Jody rolls her eyes. “Can everyone stop? We’re scaring the scientists.”

Dean wants to laugh at that, but he’s suddenly really tired. A deep, all encompassing weariness that goes all the way to his bones. “No, Cas is right. I just need to sit. I won’t leave, I’ll be in the car.” 

Cas walks with him to the car, Sam staring at them the entire way from the front door. Dean gets in and Cas follows him, closing the car door to block Sam’s view. The tinted windows are a blessing; with the weak light outside, it is positively gloomy within the car.

With a weak laugh, Dean runs his hands through his hair. “Wow, Sam  _ does not _ trust you.” 

Castiel shrugs. “I don’t find it to be important, unless it impedes our working together on this.”

Dean leans his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. He exhales loudly. 

“I’m sorry, Dean, I get the sense that our budding new dynamic was, let’s say, confusing for you in that context.” 

He cracks open an eye and looks at Cas who’s smiling wryly, leaning back against the car door. 

“Yeah, a little. I think I needed it though. We should… I mean, we really need to… if you want..”

Cas nods. “I know. We  _ do _ need to talk about everything. After this is over, we can bring dinner to my office. It isn’t exactly neutral territory, but it isn’t provoking, and certainly not what I would call a safe, private space for anything more than talking. Are you well, should I leave?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. You help me put pieces together. But… maybe you should go for yourself? You weren’t supposed to get caught up in another case like this.”

Brushing his hand over Dean’s cheek like a butterfly kiss, Castiel smiles. “A lovely sentiment, and I’m sure my brother would approve, but I’m fine. At least for now. I’m an obsessive, Dean, the danger comes with too much time spent on one thing. One afternoon won’t hurt me.”

“I think I’m okay now.” Dean looks past Cas, out the window. “Sam’s still watching the car and he looks pissed. I’m half tempted to stay here just to keep winding him up.” 

Rolling his eyes, Cas opens the car door. “Your poor brother. Leave him alone, Dean.” 

They pile out of the SUV. Sam is indeed still watching them both, eyes narrowed. Dean can’t help himself, grinning and winking. Sam rolls his eyes, going back inside and sending a rude gesture back at them as he does.

“Awesome,” he mutters under his breath, unable to stop smiling.

Back inside, the techs have relieved the corpse of its greeting card and Jody is holding the plastic baggie. Grim faced, she holds it up so Dean can see the back. There’s a lipstick kiss over the back flap. 

“Sealed with a kiss,” she says. 

“Well, fuck.” He peers at it. “So, can we open it here?”

Sam shakes his head. “We have to preserve as much as we can. I doubt those are his lips on there, but you never know.”

Dean takes the baggie and squints at it. “Maybe the bartender’s?”

Castiel comes around from behind him to look. “What an odd shade.”

Everyone crowds around to look. 

“Can’t see dick here,” Sam grumbles. “Let’s get it back to the lab.”


	9. Chapter 9

It turns out that they don’t need the lab to pinpoint the lipstick shade or the brand. The instant Dean’s in good light, he recognizes it. A few hours later they have a debriefing with the rest of the agents. When it comes to the card, Dean steps up with a tube, holding it up so they can see it.

“Is a shade called Yellow Brick Road. Kind of a glittery gold, really. It’s made by a cruelty free, independent makeup company you can only really buy from online. Comes in a set with some nail polish and eyeshadow. Ruby Slippers and Wicked Witch, respectively.” 

One of the FBI guys snorts. “Got a stash at home, Detective?”

“No, smartass. I know because it’s the favorite shade of one of my best friends, Charlie. She runs another nightclub. I got her a set for Christmas last year.”

Sam takes over, announcing, “Now, we’ve sent agents to check on her, she’s fine, and she’s definitely not the unsub. She  _ is  _ missing her makeup set, though. She’s been more than cooperative, turning over her remarkable collection of security videos to us. We think that this is meant to worry Dean for her safety or indicate that he knows a lot of things about him, to scare him.” 

Castiel says, “Or to invite him to play, perhaps.”

Sam grinds his teeth. “Yes, or that. I’ve officially been given lead on this, so I’ll be giving out assignments in about five minutes. Coffee break, everyone.”

When the last of the Agents have filed out of the room, Sam turns to them both. “Look, Dean, thank you for the… ‘insight’ at the crime scene, but I think it would be best for everyone if you and Hannibal here take off and let us do our jobs.” 

Irrationally, the reference pisses Dean off so much he just wants to shake Sam. But Cas puts a hand on his arm and he simmers down. Sam’s scowl deepens, eyes narrowed in distrust.

“Agent Winchester,” Castiel’s using the same polite tone he uses with Rook, glossy and emotionless, “Dean has so far been the only person that we know for sure to have been in contact with the unsub and survived. Taking him off this case now is shortsighted.”

Sam advances on Cas, scowling. Dean casually steps in the way. Sam looks between them with a calculating expression.

“Shortsighted. It seems to me that he’s been watching Dean for some time now. Putting him out there will keep him in harm’s way. Especially since he seems to have such an  _ insight _ into how his mind works, Mr. Novak. I read the report on your slashed tires. I don’t think that was meant for you, I think it was a signal to Dean.”

“Professor Novak,” Dean mutters. Sam turns to look at him and Cas tries to get Dean to quiet down by squeezing the arm he’s holding.

Dean shakes him off. 

“Professor Novak, Sam. You’re being rude. He’s been amazingly helpful with every case that I... that  _ we  _ have brought to him. I know you’ve always had some weird problem with him, but some respect might be due here.”

Sam opens his mouth to retort, then thinks better of it. Moving fast and sure, he grabs Dean’s arm and yanks it out of Castiel’s grip. Hustling him towards the closest room, he bites out, “Excuse us,  _ Professor. _ I need to talk to my brother in private.”

Sam gets him into the room over Dean’s objections, closing the door on Castiel. They stand, looking at each other for a second, before Sam throws up his hands. “Dude, what the hell?”

“You’re gonna need to be a little more specific, Sam.”

“Tell me about Castiel.”

Dean eyes him. “He’s a professor, he’s a genius. We happen to share a love of kinky things, which isn’t illegal or even that strange nowadays. What are you trying not to say?”

“Fine.” Sam looks out the office window at Castiel, who is leaning his perfect ass against Garth’s desk as they chat amiably. “That guy is strange and the way he has you eating out of his hand is creepy. I don’t trust him! There’s something lurking under the surface that just isn’t right. I think he’s involved in this, _ and _ I think he’s playing you.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You’re not too old or too FBI for me to take you down a peg, Sammy.”

Sam snorts. “Really? Sure you don’t need to get permission from your precious  _ Professor _ to make a move like that? I don’t think you’re up to the task.”

Dean clenches his hands, trying not to punch his brother. He takes an angry breath, prepares to yell at him instead, when there’s a loud throat-clearing from the back of the room.

“Look, boys,” Jody says, arms folded over her chest, take-out containers and paperwork abandoned on her desk. “I don’t know why you chose my office, of all places, to start this fight, but I’m going to end it.”

She gets up and comes over to put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Guys, you’re brothers. Coming to blows about this is dumb. Dean, whether you want to admit it or not, your… thing with Professor Novak is a little off. But, Dean should be on this task force because he’s been hunting this asshat for a while now. He also has the ear of one of the greatest criminal psychiatrists in the world, and the killer is going to involve him, whether you want it or not. If you hide him away, the guy might never resurface. Now, both of you get the hell out of my office and let me finish this damn paperwork in peace.”

They both respond to the chiding tone, shuffling out of the room with sheepish apologies. Castiel waits, listening to a joke, pointedly not looking at them. Garth is animated and grinning, making huge gestures with his hands, the rhinestones on his hat catching the light as he moves his head. 

They stay by the office door watching in silence for a minute before Sam clears his throat. 

“Does he wear that hat to every crime scene?” He’s trying, his voice tight as he attempts to keep it light. 

Dean snorts. “Every. Crime. Scene. There’s a local reporter who has taken to calling him ‘The Cowboy’, which only makes it worse.”

“Look, Dean. I’m… sorry for being rude. I still don’t trust him, but if you do… that’s gotta be enough for me. You can be on this case, but just know, I will take you off it and stick you in protective custody so fast your head will spin if it looks like the unsub is getting too close.”

“Fine. Where are you staying?”

Sam smiles grimly. “As long as this guy is hand delivering you body parts, I’m staying at your place.” 

Dean digs his keys out of his pocket and fools around with them, detaching a spare off the set. “Here, I had this made just in case you came to visit. Make yourself at home. I gotta escort Cas back to his place.” He pauses, meeting his brother’s eyes in both amusement and challenge. “Don’t wait up. Bitch.”

As he heads towards Castiel, waiting patiently with a faintly amused expression, he waves cheerfully at Sam’s grumbled, “Jerk.” 

Everything is fine while they leave the station. Castiel is polite but distant, making Dean worry until they get outside. One step out the door, however, and he is in Dean’s space, spearing him with a look that goes straight through him. 

“Take me to my office. We need to talk in a building without a bed in it. We’ll get dinner on the way.”


	10. Chapter 10

It’s late, and most of the campus is abandoned, except for Castiel’s building, which is full of students. They are going to and fro, carrying what look like Halloween props. Camille, in charge with a clipboard, is leaning against the elevator cage when they come in.

“Hey Professor Novak.” She grins and waggles her eyebrows. “Hi  _ Detective Winchester. _ If we’re too loud, just come and find me. We’re setting up for the party! The Psych department in charge of it this year, and Dean Rook was real nice when we brought the petition to him. He said he knew the best place for it, and he was right. This building is creepy as fuck. We’re gonna turn it into a haunted house!”

Dean squints. “Party? Haunted House?”

She looks at him blankly. “Uh. Halloween? It’s like, in a few days.” 

“Wow, I must have blanked on that, with everything else. The campus always throws a really epic-” 

Castiel goes past him up the stairs, his face thunderous. 

“-Uh… bash every year. Well, just… be safe, okay?” 

Castiel’s disappeared, so Dean’s forced to run up the stairs after him, trying to keep the bags with the food upright while he waves distractedly at the beaming Camille.

When Dean gets to the office, Cas is standing at the window staring out at the gathering dusk, arms wrapped around himself. “I must admit, I hadn’t expected this kind of level of pettiness from the man.”

Dean makes sure to lock the door. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll lock the office so it’s off limits, and you won’t even be here. You can be safe at home ignoring trick or treaters like every year.” 

He gets no response, but he starts setting the food up anyway, extra careful to make sure everything is the way Castiel likes it. “My brother hates Halloween too. Ever since he was a kid.” 

“It’s the masks,” Castiel says absently. “He hates a false face. It’s why he hates clowns.” 

Dean starts. “I don’t remember telling you…”

Sitting with a tired smile, Cas looks over the food. “You didn’t. Superbly done, Dean. Eat, and then we can have the most overdue conversation ever.”

The sudden fluttering in his stomach says he can’t eat now, but he does try. For his part, Castiel eats delicately and sparingly. There’s a disconnected, distracted air to him that makes Dean wonder if this is a good idea right now. 

Unable to try any longer, Dean blurts out, “Is this the right time? You seem, I dunno, off.”

With a sudden intense burst of energy, Cas darts forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at him. “I enjoyed having you on stage. Watching you take everything I wished to give was a heady experience… but I feel shame, Dean, and I’m afraid we can’t continue until I talk about that.”

Dean interrupts, prompting a mild look that is as good as any actual scowl. “I think I know what this is about. You’re talking about the whole - training me to do certain things the way you want them done. Gabriel made fun of me for it, and honestly, I don’t mind. I like it. I like it… a lot.”

“I didn’t ask for your permission, and if I cannot be trusted - Dean! What…”

Dean’s slid to his knees in front of Cas and taken his hands. “No, no I get it. Listen, I might not have put words to it like your brother did, but I understood what was going on. I liked it. I guess I was afraid that if I spoke up about it, you’d stop. It felt… like a secret kind of flirting. Intimate. I trust you, Cas.”

Restlessly, Cas frees a hand to trace his fingers along Dean’s cheek. “I want to own you, Dean Winchester. I want to know that when I look at you, my claim is strong, that no one else may have you.”

He turns his head to kiss Cas’ hand. “Then we’re on the same page. I haven’t wanted anything more in my life.” 

Cas opens his mouth, but Dean interrupts him again. “I know we need to talk about limits and everything, and I get that - it’s important. I just don’t know what they are any more. I haven’t been able to find this kind of relationship in years.”

Castiel smiles, an actual unreserved moment of joy, and leans down to lightly kiss Dean on the lips. “Stay there.”

Staying there is hard when all he can hear are the noises of Cas fiddling with his desk. He can only imagine what’s going on over there, and the more he does, the more he wants to turn. Eventually, Cas comes back. He’s holding a thin leather cord in his hands. He sits again to look Dean in the face.

“I’d like you to wear this for a few days. Feel its weight, let it help you think about me, about us. Think about the limits you have, and how much power you want to give to me.”

Hoarsely, Dean manages, “But I know what I…” 

“Do you? Playing on stage is different than the precipice we’re hovering over now. I sense that you’d willingly give me more power than I should have, and you need to know that you have agency. I want you to think, and to be honest.”

He takes Dean’s hand and runs a finger up the inside of his wrist. “I enjoy seeing you suffer. Two days and then we will talk again about what you’ve imagined me doing to you in the meantime.”

His profound frustration must show on his face, because Cas pulls him close. He kisses Dean slowly, open mouthed, hot-breath-and-tongue, sliding down to kneel with him on the floor, bodies flush. He can feel Cas, hard against him, rocking his hips slightly, and he moans into the kiss, whispering  _ please-please Cas. _

Kissing and pulling back just a little, Castiel whispers into his mouth, “I want to fuck you. I want to make you moan and beg for release. I want to make you crawl and writhe with pleasure until you can’t remember your own name. 

“But if…” He bites Dean’s neck now, nosing up with hot breath to his ear, “...you can’t follow a simple instruction…” His clever tongue flicks across the sensitive outer shell, and it’s almost too much; Cas so close to him, smelling so good, his words in his ear with that low sultry growl. Dean cries out desperately, wracked with a full body shiver. 

“If you can’t follow a simple instruction,” Cas repeats, “how can I trust you with more? Do you want more than just one night of lust? I can fuck you now and be done with it. You’ll enjoy one night with me, and then we’ll go back to our lives.”

Dean gasps, “No, please, I’m sorry, Cas.”

“Again.”

“I’m sorry, Cas, I want it, I want everything you can give me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Castiel pulls away and the sudden loss of contact makes Dean sob out loud once before he bites it back hard. Cas touches the one tear slowly making its way down Dean’s face, plays with the wetness on his slim fingers.

“Then give me your wrist.”

He does, helplessly. Castiel wraps a thin leather cord around it, tying it securely. A bead, a small curve of metal, has been attached. Through the haze, Dean appreciates the subtlety. From any one else’s point of view, it looks like a horse-shoe charm, something for good luck. But when Dean turns his wrist, it looks like what it is - a ‘C’. It’s also small enough that it won’t be immediately obvious or ostentatious. Just enough for Dean to feel its weight. How long has he had this, sitting in his desk?

Castiel presses his forehead against Dean’s, and they stay that way, breathing in sync until Cas’ phone chimes with a reminder.

“It’s late and I still have some work to do. You may stay here quietly with me and escort me home, or go now and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

As much as he wants to just bask in Cas’ presence, Dean is wrung out. He wants a shower and something mindless to watch, and maybe some sleep. Cas can read it on his face and he smiles, helping Dean up, walking him to the door. 

Halfway out the door, Cas stops him with a hand. Dean looks down at him, falling again into that sharp, direct gaze. Cas looks up at him with such want and naked need that Dean pulls him close, kissing him for an eternity. 

When Cas finally lets him go and closes the door gently on him, Dean stands for second, trying to gather his wits back out of his pants. Camille, he notices, is leaning against the elevator door with a huge, self-satisfied grin on her face. Dean rolls his eyes. 

“You’re a perv, woman.” 

She snorts. “ _ I’m _ not the one making out in the hallway with my definitely not-a-boyfriend. And no, I wasn’t stalking you. I gotta go home. My bag is in there, but uh, the door was locked. Soooo.”

He starts down the stairs. She doesn’t come with him, but he can hear her laughing for most of the way down.

                                                                                                      *

Sam is not home when he gets there and that suits him fine. Somewhere on the drive over, his mood has plummeted. The shower he’s promised himself sounds like heaven and it does not disappoint; the one thing his apartment has going for it is excellent water pressure. He spends almost an hour reveling in the harsh, hot spray before coming out in a towel. The leather cord stays on, shrinking just a little because of the water. He spends some quality time watching the charm shine under the spray as he jacks off with that hand. When he gets out, towel wrapped around his waist, he hears a noise in the kitchen and realizes suddenly that he’s starving. 

“Sammy! Please tell me you brought like, pizza or something home!” Sam doesn’t hear him, so he heads over that way, still in his towel.

The kitchen is dark except for one light above the stove. It illuminates most of Gabriel’s face from where he sits at Dean’s kitchen table. Waiting. Dean starts, brought up short, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Fucking… Gabe, what the hell. You can’t just sit like a stalker in the dark like that. What the fuck.”

Gabe nods. Carefully, he gets a lollipop out of his jacket pocket and makes a big deal about unwrapping it. “Good question, Dean. What the fuck indeed. I might ask you the same thing.” 

He gets up, advancing on Dean slowly, gesturing menacingly with the candy. “I thought we’d had a conversation about this. How my good friend and my brother should just… leave their clothing on. I thought you were listening. Then I go to see him tonight at his office and his TA cheerfully tells me about how you’re making out in the hallway. How the door was locked for  _ such a long time. _ ” His impression of Camille is spot on, but mocking, sickly sweet and malignant.

Although Gabe much shorter and smaller, Dean feels wrongfooted somehow. He silently curses Camille. “Bro, look, it’s not even about you-”

Gabriel tilts his head, eyes glittering in the half-light. “Oh, but it is,  _ bro. _ ” One hand shoots out, fast as a striking snake, to grab Dean’s wrist. 

“This-” He shakes Dean’s arm, making the bead on the bracelet jiggle, “- _ This i _ s my business. Castiel is unstable, you fucking dumbass. He’s going to get infatuated with you and then I’m going to lose both of you. I thought I  _ told you this. _ ” 

Trying to free his arm goes nowhere, Gabriel’s grip is surprisingly firm. “G-Gabe, look, I’ve had kind of a day. Can we stop being creepy, maybe let me get some… some pants?”

Gabriel blinks. His entire demeanor changes instantly, his angry face opening up into friendliness and concern. “What? Creepy - fuck, Dean, I’m sorry.” He steps back, his hands lifted. “I didn’t mean to - yeah, man, get dressed.”

Dean nods, backing out of the kitchen and up the hall to his room. Okay, first things first, pants. Then he can find some way to get out of here. He doesn’t know if Gabriel is drunk or what, but he needs to put some distance between them. He wishes his damn phone wasn’t in evidence now. He sorts through his dresser for clothing, slowly breathing until his heart stops hammering. For fuck’s sake, he’s not some girl in a horror movie. He can deal with a drunk friend without calling his brother to save him.

By the time he’s dressed, he can hear music from the other room, and he can smell food cooking. Is that… laughter? Carefully making his way down the hall, he can hear two people talking - Sam and Gabe.

Sure enough, when the kitchen comes into view, there they are. Gabe is at the stove, laughing at something Sam is saying while he cheerfully sits at the kitchen table. With the lights blazing, it looks cosy and domestic. He scrubs his hands over his face watching them; there’s no trace of the strangely desperate Gabe from earlier. Maybe he’s just projecting, turning the whole thing into more than it is. It really has been a shit day. 

“Dean!” Sam waves at him. “C’mon in! Gabe here is making us some food.” 

It smells divine and Dean is tired of feeling awful. He makes the decision to just drop it and enjoy dinner. He tries to smile as he comes into the kitchen, dropping into a chair like a sack of potatoes. “You haven’t lived till you’ve eaten his food.” 

Gabe turns, grinning, lollipop stick out of the corner of his mouth like a cigarette. “So these are just omelets, but they’re pretty damn good omelets. You had some kickin’ cheese and some peppers that needed eating, so here we go.” 

He didn’t even know he  _ had _ food in there, but Gabe keeps his fridge stocked sometimes without asking. Dean can’t count number of times he’s stumbled in after work, too tired to even dial the phone to order something. He opens the fridge just looking for any scrap of snack to have before falling into bed, only to find totally prepared meals just waiting to be heated. 

Fuck, he really is hungry. 

He and Sam attack their food with gusto, and Gabe watches quietly. Eventually he clears his throat, and talks, his words hesitant and contrite.

“Hey, Dean, I’m sorry. I should have thought before I barged over here. I was here for the start of it, I can only imagine how the rest of the day went.” 

Dean blinks. “Fuck, that’s right. There should be blood everywhere. What…” 

Sam raises his hand, swallowing a mountain of egg. “That was me. I abused my position to get some cleaners in here.” 

The place is spotless, but Dean shivers anyway, unable to finish eating suddenly. He’s tired now, his body heavy as lead. A jaw-cracking yawn takes over and he stands, waving and moving, mumbling about sleep. When he’s halfway to his room, he realizes that Gabe has followed him most of the way down the hall. 

“Dean, I’m serious. You have to break it off.” He’s nothing but a silhouette, backlit by the light from the kitchen, but he looks nervous anyway. Skittish.

Dean closes his eyes, leaning on one hand against the wall. “Gabe, I love you, but fuck off. I won’t do that. If that’s what you want, you have to talk to your brother, I guess.” Dean sighs and adds, “But I wish you wouldn’t.”

Gabe is silent, so he continues into his room and locks the door. Falling face-first onto the bed, he dives deep into a silent and dreamless sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

After all that excitement, the next morning at the precinct is just work. Mindless, endless work. Sam’s got some lead from another town that he’s tracking down all day on the phone, and Dean has paperwork. So much fucking paperwork. Halfway through banging his head on it, he calls Cas and gets his voice mail. Disappointed, but fine, he leaves a message with the phone number to his new, temporary, cell phone. He fidgets with the bead when he’s supposed to be working, watching the play of light on the silver.

He doesn’t hear from Cas that day or the next. Gabriel is mopey and strange during Bad Movie Night, and to be honest, Dean’s not feeling it either. He can’t get a straight answer from Gabriel about Castiel, except a shrug and a quickly hidden smug smile. Dean kicks them all out early. He considers and discards stopping by Cas’ house. If he needs space, Dean will give him space. The cord is tight and chafes his skin. Two days. It’s been two days, like he asked. Maybe he changed his mind and doesn’t want to talk to him.

The next day, he skips out of work for an hour to watch one of Cas’ lectures. He looks under slept and rumpled; the unkempt nature of his clothing and hair send up alarm bells. Dean waits until the lecture is over to ambush him in the hall. 

Castiel, fiddling with his satchel as he walks, looks up and sees Dean. He stops on a dime, breath catching and holding, as if Dean is a dream that might pop if he moves or breathes. Dean walks slowly, giving him time to spook and make him stop. Reaching out, he touches Cas, cupping his face, heart surging when Cas presses his cheek against his hand with a sigh. 

“Your brother is an asshole,” Dean says gently. Castiel nods miserably. “He claims that you’re unstable, but I’m beginning to think he’s really talking about himself.”

Castiel swallows hard. grabbing Dean’s wrist and squeezing. “I’m sorry to have put you through this. You don’t deserve any of it.”

“Are you breaking up with me before we’ve started?” His heart aches at the uncertain look he sees. 

“I don’t know,” Cas admits, his voice rough. “I need more time. I - I don’t want to.”

Dean leans forward and gives him a kiss - just a quick press of lips, but it feels earth-shattering.

                                                                                                  *

Two days, no word, and it’s the Devil’s Night. Halloween always seems to shake Cas to the core every year, so he figures he should at least check on him. He stops by Cas’ office with some takeout at lunch.

Approaching the building, there is no damn way Cas is in there, even with his strict work schedule. The gothic structure stretches up into the grey sky as always, but somehow it looks taller. Darker. White gossamer curtains flutter in the upstairs windows; Dean is gripped with the creepy feeling that there is someone unseen watching him. The building is surrounded by gravestones, carefully painted to look weathered and ancient, and around that is an iron fence. He can hear the low subtle strains of organ music from within and the sound of weeping. A blood-curdling scream startles him into action, making him start for the door just as Camille bursts out of it, jogging backwards. 

“Wait until I get outside, so I can hear it from there, dumbass!’ She yells into the building, just before smacking into Dean, nearly knocking them both down. Apologizing and swearing, she untangles herself from him and then goes completely still when she realizes who he is.

A chilly wind blows through the trees. “Detective, I… I was going to call you.”

Dean picks a leaf out of her hair gently. “Somehow I suspect I would still be waiting for that call a year from now. It’s… It’s okay. Camille. Just tell me.”

“Professor Novak says - He’s so busy with work, he can’t help you with this case any longer. Oh I can’t!”

Her anguish, raw on her face, says it all. Dean nods. “Look, you don’t have to finish it, I get it. Look, do me a favor and type it into an email and send it to Jody, okay? Was there anything-um. Anything personal?”

She shakes her head. “No, but I’m afraid for him. He’s never come into work wearing the same clothing he left in the night before. He isn’t sleeping, I can see it. I even had to do one of his lectures for him. He’s falling apart. Which of course makes Dean Rook happier than a clam. What’s going on?”

Dean snorts. “Blood is thicker than water.”

“What does that mean?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “Just let it go, Camille.” 

He presses the bag of food into her hands and squeezes her shoulder. Driving around blindly for a hazy amount of time, he eventually finds himself at the beach, so he goes for a walk along the boardwalk, hoping the exercise will even him out. His phone rings again; it’s been ringing for hours, off and on, always Sam. It’s still Sam. To keep him from worrying, he sends a text.  _ I’m okay, I just need to do some stuff, Sammy. Taking another personal day.  _

Dean numbly shoves the phone in his pocket. It’s cold and he hasn’t eaten most of the day, but it hardly seems to matter. So he sits until dusk, watching some college kids build a bonfire on the beach. When it’s dark, he goes home, gets dressed, and goes to Blue Angel. 

Cas isn’t there, of course. There’s a small memorial to the dead bartender next to the quiet bar. His replacement is a small waifish woman with heavy mascara, and she sells him vodka and sympathy until she cuts him off. He stumbles out into the alley, across the boardwalk, and back onto the beach where he finishes the night drinking with the bonfire crowd, blacking out in the sand. 

In the dreamlike haze that follows, he barely registers someone lovingly picking him up out of his own sick, whispering words of encouragement to him. They smell like Castiel and Dean reaches out, grabbing, trying to hold on, asking to be forgiven for whatever he’s done wrong. Quiet soothing noises and the welcome cold of a water glass are the only answer he gets. Bed, warm and soft, low lights, and fingers soothe through his hair, damp and slick on his brow. The pressure, the unbelievable weight on his wrist is eased with a quiet sound and the flash of a blade, but he’s falling too hard into the black to object.

The high-pitched blare of his alarm pierces through the velvet dark, stabbing into his temples. Violently thrown pillows miss their mark, and he’s forced to get up, lurching out of bed to grab the clock and slam it on the dresser. In the silence, he registers that he’s in his own house, naked except for boxers. His hair is gritty with sand and dried sweat. He also smells coffee, but an enthusiastic sniff brings up the horror that is his own body odor. There’s a bottle of aspirin on the side table and a glass of water - he downs some of those on his way out, hoping it quiets the pounding in his head.

Sam’s gone already, at, fuck, six in the damn morning, but he’s left a note on Dean’s dresser. 

_ You scared the hell out of me, you asshole. I had to go to work early - got a lead. Gabriel is the one who found you at 2am, but maybe he should have let you sleep on the beach. He left a “present” for you, it’s on the counter next to the donuts he also brought. Look - do yourself a favor, and stay home today. You could use the break, and I bet you feel like hammered shit. At least I’d know you weren’t getting murdered someplace. _

Damn, he’s tired of this emotional rollercoaster. Flashes of the way he was put to bed keep creeping up in his consciousness. Gabe was damn decent to him, and it’s hard to hate someone who takes care of you with such tenderness, but at the same time, he knows Gabe cut Cas’ cord off of him. He stumbles off to shower, trying not to think about it anymore.

In the kitchen is a huge box of donuts, and a bright pink stuffed elephant, sitting on top of a note:

_ Hey, sunshine, hope the hangover doesn’t suck too much. Brought you a fuzzy friend, just so you can remember who loves ya! Stop by the restaurant later, I have a new spice rub for the steak, and I think you’ll love it. -Gabe _

He stuffs a donut into his mouth, absently folding the note into a tiny square, mulling everything over. Sam’s never understood that Dean with time on his hands is trouble, and he has a lead. Castiel backing out means that they’re all going to have to be on point to make up for the loss of his insight and frankly, his sheer brain power. They can’t do it without everyone there, and hard work can keep him from mooning over Cas. He should go to work.

He looks at the stupid elephant and runs his fingers through the plush fur. Gabe is just scared and the only thing that can overcome that is tenacity. Maybe if he calms down a bit and takes everything slowly, he can still have a best friend  _ and  _ the man of his dreams. If that’s what Cas wants. He puts the hideous animal in the living room on top of the tv on his way out. 

Carrying a comically oversized take out coffee into the precinct, he gets waylaid just a he’s coming in the door by Jody who is hurrying so fast that she’s nearly breathless. 

“There’s an update on your body in the lab. Plus they’ve opened up the envelope, so we can see that.”

He squints at her. “Don’t we - I mean, is it  _ that _ interesting? I can read the report at my desk.” 

Jody doesn’t answer him, walking to the elevator at speed, so he’s forced to jog a bit to catch up. She’s silent in the elevator, pretending not to notice Dean’s puzzled looks, and silent on the way to Kevin’s office which turns out not to be open. They end up waiting in the hallway. He watches her try not to look suspiciously shifty for a few before following a hunch. 

“So, what’s this hot lead Sam has?” 

He has to give it to her, she’s good. Her gaze only flickers a little. “You know how the FBI are with information.” 

Which isn’t an answer. In fact, it’s aggressively non-committal. Kevin’s arrival comes before he can press the issue. He takes in the sight of the Captain and Dean hanging out in the hallway in front of his door and raises both his eyebrows. “You know, I sent a report this morning. Was there a typo?”

“Let’s go over it again. I may have some questions.” Jody’s gaze is flinty.

Wisely, he says nothing else, merely opening his office and getting out the file. A half hour later, there’s only so much that he’s learned. The bartender had been drugged with GHB, but there’s more found in his pocket, so he probably took it himself. He was strangled mid act, with way more force than was necessary. He asks the coroner obnoxious obvious questions until Jody makes him stop with a loaded eyebrow.

“What about the card?”

Kevin carefully takes it out of the evidence bag and shows it to them. “The SWAK on the back of the envelope doesn’t belong to the victim. It might be the unsub, but, obviously, we don’t know yet. There’s no usable DNA from him anywhere at the scene. Inside it is a card, a picture of a puppy and a kitten in a field.”

He opens it gingerly, holding it up for them to see. “It says ‘thinking of you’. It came with, um. A picture.” 

Suddenly blushing, he looks up at Jody, who nods once. Fetching another evidence bag, Kevin puts it on the table for Dean to look, but he’s already sure of what he’s going to see. 

Sure enough, there’s a picture of him, naked and ecstatic on the cross at Blue Angel, stretched and covered in welts. Conspicuously, there’s no Cas in the picture, taken just at a point where he’s walked away for a second. 

He snorts out a half laugh. “Well, that’s just... Perfect. Has Sam seen this?”

Jody shakes her head. “But he will, and so will the rest of the agents. Listen, Dean, I’d like you to go back to Blue Angel and then Charlie’s. Re-interview the staff, see if you can get anything new. Given the new information here, you might shake something loose.”

Re-interviewing witnesses is grunt work, plus it’s pointless, and what’s more, Jody knows it. Her crossed arms and the set of her chin tell him that if he argues, she’s going to make his life hard over it. So instead, he runs a hand through his hair, takes a long drink of coffee, and smiles, letting his headache show. 

“Well, that’s a good idea. Maybe one of the Angels over there had to confiscate a phone or something. Hey, do you think I could take the afternoon? My head is killing me.”

Jody, who approves all sick time with a scowl and mockery for getting sick in the first place, breaks into a relieved smile. “Of course, Dean.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean walks around the building to the back, thinking. Jody had masked her concern, turning it into that picture of him, but it can’t just be that. He paces, kicking a rock around until it goes too hard and ricochets off the wall into the dumpster. The clanging noise makes his head throb. 

Sam had a lead, but it has to have escalated into more or he wouldn’t have been treated to Jody’s awkward soft-shoe routine that kept him firmly downstairs. This is a lead that requires Dean to be absent, and he can only really think of one thing that could possibly be at this point. Dean calls Garth. 

Fifteen minutes later, the back door opens and Garth beckons him inside quickly. 

“Garth, what is going on up there?” 

“I don’t know, I’m stuck doing filing in the basement. _ In the basement _ , like I’m some kind of civilian.” Garth’s usual smile is sour. He’s not even wearing the hat. “Something big is happening and I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

Dean’s stomach is doing flips. “Are there any FBI in the interview monitor room?”

Garth nods. “I can get them out for a minute, if that’s what you want.” 

Dean chews on his thumbnail, thinking. “Get them a snack. They’ve been here since fuck o’clock, they’ve gotta be hungry and irritable by now. It’ll distract the bulk of them and then we can get them out of the room. Just… be careful.

Garth just grins at him and dashes up the stairs. 

An eternity later, Dean is sneaking past happy FBI crowding around the break room, into the hallway with the interrogation room and the viewing station. Garth waves at him frantically from the open door, pushing him inside with a whispered, “You have like, three minutes.”

Without enough space for the classic viewing room behind a one way mirror, they’d installed monitors in a glorified closet, each interrogation filmed and stored for later. There’s two interview rooms, but only one is active. Dean sits to watch. 

Sure enough, Castiel is there, sitting with folded hands and watching as Sam seethes and paces on the other side of the table. He seems calm, but Dean can see the strain lurking around his eyes. No handcuffs, but there’s a distinct lack of a lawyer in there, too.

“Three years ago,” Sam slaps a picture in front of Cas, “ _ this _ happened in Oregon. They found three more buried in the woods. Then again in Berkeley and  _ again _ in Cambridge. You lived in each of these places when these attacks happened.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I barely lived in Oregon, Sam. As you undoubtedly know, I was in London for the majority of the years where I could claim an address there. Honestly, I had little time for murder. The constant travelling back and forth and the nature of my work left me unable to tell what day it was, let alone plan… all of this.” 

“That’s  _ Agent Winchester _ to you, Mr. Novak.” 

“Of course.” Castiel smiles, all teeth. “Please do call me Professor Novak.”

“And why were you living in Oregon in the first place,  _ Professor,  _ if you had such constant work in London?” Dean isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, but Sam sounds a little smug and Castiel’s face turns to stone.

“My brother needed me, so I was unable to leave the country completely.”

Sam sits and shuffles papers. “Your brother, Gabriel Shurley.” He reads it off the paper like he doesn’t already know that. He peers up at Castiel. “Different fathers? What was so urgent that he needed you to drop everything for him? Was he sick?”

Castiel leans forward, staring directly into Sam’s eyes. “Stop this now.”

Sam snorts. “Was it because he was running from your family? But it’s not a family, is it? I think it would be more like a - well, from this report, it seems more like a horror movie. Or a cult.”

Castiel’s stare could bore holes through steel. “You have no right.”

Sam keeps talking, driving for that hole in his armor. “Just like a horror movie. I have this report from, what, thirty years ago? You were a teenager. Halloween night, when the cops finally got there, they found you with a noose around your neck in a… well, that’s a cage. Wasn’t the first time your ‘family’ had nearly strangled you to death, is it? I have all these reports… and your poor brother, what they did to him...” He thumbs through a stack of paper, making it ruffle like a deck of cards. 

Dean is already halfway out the door when three disgruntled agents shove Garth aside, yelling at him to leave. He’s pushing past them, headed straight for the interview room. Jody, arms up in a placating gesture, tries to get in his way. 

Dean barrels past her, knocking her aside to barge into the interview room. Sam’s on his feet, angrily yelling at Dean, but he’s only got eyes for Cas. 

He’s disheveled and looks exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept since the last time Dean saw him, dark circles prominent and stark. For an instant, he looks at Dean like he invented the sun, pure relief etched into his face. Castiel recovers fairly quickly, his smooth mask returning as he raises an eyebrow at Dean. 

He offers his hand to Cas, the wrist still red and marked from the wet leather that was once there. He looks at it and then up at Dean with a tense smile.

“This interview is over, Agent Winchester.” Cas’ tone is clipped. He takes Dean’s hand, rising and stretching his shoulders.

“Unless you’re arresting him?” Dean eyeballs Sam, positioning himself between them both. Sam bristles. 

Castiel walks out, hand still in Dean’s, so he’s forced to back away from his brother and then down the hall. Along the way, every officer is silent, watching them pass by. Jody’s face is thunderous, but she doesn’t stop him. Outside, Dean hustles Cas along, and it isn’t until they’re in the car that he is able to breathe, his heart slamming away at the inside of his chest.

They both sit for what seems like an eternity. Finally, Cas says quietly, “Thank you.” 

He flexes his hands on the wheel. “It’s fine. I was pretty sure I’d be fired from this job at some point. Did you know that you could leave? He hadn’t arrested you…”

Cas shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve been unable to sleep, and I - well, I hate to admit it, but I froze. Questions about my family do that sometimes.” Castiel pauses and Dean can hear his throat click as he swallows. “I suppose you have questions.”

“I do, but only when you’re  ready, and you are  _ definitely _ not ready now.  The most pressing questions I have are about other things. Do you want me to take you home?” 

“No. I don’t want to go there. Or my office; the building is besieged by this infernal holiday.”

“I could take you to my place, or… or I don’t know, Gabriel’s or anywhere else.”

“Take me to yours.” Castiel leans against the door, worn through.

Dean does. 

                                                                                                                      *

No one is here and Dean throws the bolt so that neither of their brothers can come in unannounced. He turns to find Cas looking over his spartan apartment with barely disguised humor. 

“This is not what I expected, but perhaps I should have. I see you, too, are a proud owner of a plushy pink companion.”

“What can I say, I’m irresistible. I was bound to get one eventually.” Dean turns on the small lamp on the side table. It gives off a low warm glow.

Castiel drops onto the couch like a stone. “Dean, I can’t really explain the last few days, but I never wanted to hurt you.”

Dean sits next to him, grabbing his hands and squeezing. “You and your brother are complicated, I get that, believe me.” 

Castiel kisses each set of Dean’s knuckles in turn, locking gazes with him. “Dean, there is but one thing I’m certain of right now, and that is how much I want this. Have I ruined it?”

Dean lets go in order to push the damp coat off him and fling it across towards the door, ignoring the sigh of disapproval. “No. Not… not really, but I can’t take another freeze-out like that. I guess I just want to say -”

Castiel’s eyes are shiny and wet in the dim light. He waits, apprehensively.

“- I love you. I’ve been in love with you for ages. If we do this, I have to know that you’re… Cas?”

Tears roll down his cheeks, and he shakes his head. “I… I apologize, Dean. I’m -” Distressed, Cas attempts to stem the tide by hiding his face. 

Dean pulls him into his arms, close enough to hear his muffled ‘I love you too’, and kisses his temple. The sound Castiel makes encourages him to kiss it again, then his ear, and his neck, and he’s suddenly flat on his back on the couch with Cas on top of him. He kisses Dean feverishly, as if he might suddenly disappear. 

It’s too soon, this is a bad idea, but Castiel tugs Dean’s shirt up and off, and he can’t find the strength to stop him. The way he reverently drags his fingers over Dean’s chest and stomach, cataloguing scars and birthmarks, the way he leans down and flicks the tip of his tongue delicately over his sensitive nipples - he’s past ‘bad idea’ and ‘too soon’, he doesn’t care. Blood singing through his veins, Dean offers his reddened wrist to Cas.

“He took it, your brother cut it off me, but I’m still yours. If you’ll have me.” 

Cas sits up, looking down at Dean’s face. “Even after-”

Dean jiggles his wrist impatiently. “Do over. I’m yours. And if you don’t take me now, I think I’ll just lose it.” 

His lips quirk, but he takes Dean’s arm and kisses the inside of his wrist, sucking and licking gingerly. Then he kisses up to the crook of his elbow, his collarbone, his neck. Sinuously, Cas re-adjusts himself so that he can pull at Dean’s pants while kissing down his stomach - little light butterfly wing kisses that drive him wild. 

They spend hours there, whispering promises and sweet declarations of love into hot skin, gentle and possessive. The slick slide, just this side of painful as Castiel enters Dean, his kisses filled with praise and worship. Hands caressing Dean’s throat, teeth marking a claim while he arches and bucks underneath Castiel’s body, joyfully begging him for release. 

Afterwards, they lie together on the couch, sticky and sated. Lying half on Dean and squished into the back of the couch, Cas’s head lies comfortably on his chest. He murmurs something about a heartbeat and then gets quiet. Dean listens to him breathe, the wind outside rattling the glass in the window. 

“I’m starving,” he says quietly to Cas who mutters sleepy half syllables in response. 

Aside from the donuts going stale in the kitchen, he knows there’s nothing there. Getting dressed and going outside is ridiculous, but he can order something. In fact, Gabe’s restaurant just signed up for this delivery service thing - he wriggles gently out from under Cas. Grabbing the comforter from his room, he tucks Cas in with a kiss and goes to find the number.


	13. Chapter 13

The wind rattles the storm door violently, the  _ bang bang bang _ waking Castiel from a deep and dreamless sleep. Disoriented, he leaps from the couch, cursing when his naked skin hits the cold air coming from the doorway. Closing the door and pulling on his clothing, he goes from room to room calling for Dean, his stomach twisting at the lack of response. 

He spends more than a few minutes looking for his cellphone, his sense of panic rising while he fumbles around under the couch trying to get it back from where it’s slid. Calling Dean’s number gets him voicemail.

A sense of dread settles heavily on him. Unhappily, he considers calling Sam when the man himself comes storming through the front door. 

He’s is already angry and Cas registers it too late to stop himself from receiving one hell of a punch to the face. Sam’s yelling something he can’t really understand at him, grabbing him as he reels from the blow and shoving him backwards. Cas collides with the television; he, it, and everything piled on top of it go flying to the ground. 

“You tell me right now what the fuck you’ve done with Dean or so help me, they will never find your body!” Sam looms over him, already readying for another lunge. Cas covers his face and stays down, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“I haven’t hurt him. I swear, Sam, he and I spent a few hours on the couch and then I fell asleep. If you don’t believe me, arrest me, but don’t - don’t hit me again. Please, you’re wasting his time.”

Sam, panting, looks around him. He takes in the rumpled comforter on the couch, Dean’s underwear flung partway across the floor, and the state of Castiel’s neck. Sam curses and backs away from him, running his hands through his hair, trying to calm down. Something under his foot crunches and breaks. 

“What in the…” Sam leans down to pick up the squashed remains of the pink fuzzy elephant.

“Gabriel gave that to Dean, it’s just… like… mine.” Castiel trails off as Sam turns the toy around to reveal a camera, now shattered, once hidden inside it.

Sam gives him a narrow look. “Your brother was spying on you. And now Dean? Why?”

“ I - I can’t really say. But if I was to guess… Sam, please, don’t hit me again!”

Sam takes one step back, but doesn’t unclench his hand. “Then by all means, guess, you prick.” 

“In that case, I would guess that their purpose was to watch so he could see if I brought anyone home. Gabriel, more than any of the rest of my siblings, has been badly damaged by our ‘upbringing’. He has strong feelings about me having a sexual partner at all, let alone someone I brought home for the purpose. It’s why we no longer live together. One of the… of the… reasons.”

Cas drags himself up carefully. “And I did. I brought him home. It’s one of the reasons he’s been so weird. That and the tire thing happening on the same day…”

Sam eyes him. “You brought Dean home after the tires?”

Cas, nodding, waves his hand at Sam absently. “Yes, I brought him home after that. Gabriel came barging in with his usual charm.”

Sam’s voice is careful. Professional. “Was that before the body parts in the mail?”

“Yes. That and the poor bartender’s demise was after Dean let me flog him on stage. Directly… after...” 

Sam just looks at him and his stomach turns. 

He walks away from Sam, heart racing. It’s unthinkable and yet he’s thinking it. Panic threatens to choke him. “Gabriel knows what it would mean to me to share that with Dean.”

He walks back towards Sam, and then away again, pacing now and talking rapidly. Everything just pours out, bitter and hot. 

“Then after that, he spent a lot of time and energy haranguing me into giving Dean up. Gabriel was relentless. I barely slept. I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t - he wouldn’t let me think. So I just finally gave in and I pushed Dean away.”

Sam gestures everywhere. “Except you didn’t.” 

Castiel nods, wringing his hands. “Sam, I love him. Dean wouldn’t give up on me, even after I treated him like that. Gabriel had a front row seat for how little I cared about what  _ he _ wanted.

“He’d have felt like we both abandoned him, and he’s not good at rejection. You’ve seen his record, you know about his anger management problems.”

Sam’s voice is ice cold. “Get your shoes on, Professor. There’s something you have to see.”

The wind outside carries the smell and tang of impending winter, underneath the laughter and shrieks of children enjoying the full swing of Halloween. Castiel tenses up, fear-fueled adrenaline spiking as they troop by in groups: cowboys and ninjas, ghosts and princesses, running after and over each other in a sugar-fueled ecstasy of youth. Sam takes him by the elbow and hustles him past the kids with a sarcastic look.

Dean’s car sits idling in front of the house, a slumped figure in the driver’s seat. Garth stands near it, unfriendly and grim. Cas’ heart leaps into his throat.

“Now, you might think it’s a body. Lord knows I did.” Sam opens the door, carefully keeping the figure from falling out. “It’s a dummy. But it’s wearing his clothing.”

So it is. It’s a scarecrow meant as a Halloween decoration, made of cloth and stuffed, dressed in what Dean had been wearing that day. A generic black mask has been fitted over the scarecrow’s eyes. Castiel shudders. 

“Is there a note?” he makes himself crouch next to the figure, ignoring the sense that he should run from it. That it might reach out and grab him.

Sam shakes his head. “No, I figured that this was meant for someone, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. I thought it was you, making fun of us.”

“No, it’s. It’s my brother. Making fun of me. He’s counting on me to panic, and he’s not wrong. But I’ve seen this godforsaken scarecrow before.” He stands, closing the door on the thing and giving it his back. “He’s in my office building. And there’s a chance he’s still alive.”

“Explain it on the way.”

Sam drives like a bat out of hell, lights flashing, siren off, but it’s still slower going than either of them would like. Drunken college students, parents with clueless kids, and stray tourists heading to the costumed bacchanalia on the boardwalk all get in the way, forcing Sam to dodge deftly.

Castiel has the case file, which he’s juggling on his knees as the car shifts back and forth. “The first murders way back in Oregon and after, these were crimes of - of anger. Passion.” He wipes wetness from his cheeks with the heel of his hand, irritably. “If I’d seen this part of the file, I think I would have known from the beginning. At least one of these men is, ah, intimately familiar to me.

“You overlooked him because he didn’t live with me for these other murders, but he visited, fairly extensively, actually. Whether I spent time with these other men or simply looked at them, or he thought I had… At any rate, these were passion, too. But he’d developed a sense of humor about it. Drama. And look, he moves around.”

Sam darts a look at him, his lips compressed into a tight line. “I thought it was about punishing you, but it isn’t, is it?”

Castiel’s skin feels too tight. He can’t vocalize it until Sam slams on the brakes to avoid hitting a group of college students crossing against the light, leaning on the horn. It’s violent and angry. It helps him push the truth out of his throat, scraping him raw. “No, it isn’t. It’s about me. What he wants from me. Taking Dean, he’s making me choose.”

“Choose what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Love or death, maybe. Love with Dean or love with G… Gabriel. Maybe he doesn’t even know. Maybe he just wants to strangle me.”

Sam screeches into the parking lot. The party is in full swing, costumed students in various states of inebriation and undress spilling out of the building around the cars. The last time Castiel had seen it, it was haunting and creepy; white curtains, subtle music. Now, the gravestones are covered in a mild layer of fog, lit from beneath. Scarecrows, like the one in Dean’s car, are mounted at jaunty angles, hands reaching for anyone walking up the path. The flashing lights and techno beat coming from every window would give all the clubs on the boardwalk a run for their money. It’s terrifying. Castiel tries to fight against the horror clawing at his throat, knuckles white as he jams his hands into fists.

Sam’s squinting at it. “Fuck, he could be anywhere in there. Look, I know what happened to you, and you don’t have to go inside.”

Cas barks out a disbelieving laugh. 

“No, I mean it, Professor. Stay here and I’ll have uniforms crawling all over this place in five minutes. We’ll shut it down. We’ll find him.” 

It’s tempting. He feels the cowardice, the relief, fill him up and it would be so easy not to go. They might even save Dean before his brother finds him to take him. Castiel could simply do nothing, take what’s coming to him. Never see those beautiful green eyes again...

His hand flies out and grabs Sam’s arm to keep him from leaving the car. “You will, but it will be too late. If Dean’s still alive, I’m meant to go find him. If you stop his fun, Gabriel will just kill him.”

Sam swallows. “That’s a little… supervillain, isn’t it?”

Cas snorts, getting out of the car. “It’s a bad movie, Agent. Right down to the haunted house theatrics. One of the loves he and Dean share. Now we just have to find him.”

Sam comes to join him and they stand, staring at the building. Castiel knows he’s shaking, but he can’t help it. His mind is moving too fast to think or calm down. Sam is talking though, working it through with his excellent mind, bless him. 

“If this is about you, then it’s about that Halloween. When you were taken from your family, it was in a haunted house.”

“Our aunt put one together every year for the neighborhood. It was a lot like this. Loud music. Scary rooms.”

“You were found in a room made up to look like a torture chamber.”

“Hanging in a  _ cage, yes. _ ” He runs his hands over his face, into his hair, pulling a little. He can feel the rope around his neck now. It hurts too much to think about. Sam is looking at him in a really weird way and he can’t breathe; it really is too much for him and the pressure bursts behind his eyes. He gets it, suddenly, his understanding of the ‘joke’ being played here spreading like cancer under his skin. He sprints for the building, leaving Sam to catch up. 

The stairs loom in the foyer, spiraling up and up forever around the long scrollwork tube for the elevator. He looks up at them. They seem to warp and twist, and then he’s running up them, students in masks blur around him as he goes. He races up, Sam calling his name, ignoring the landings for each level, around and around in a dizzy dance until he’s up at the top. At his floor.

When he’s at the very top, gulping in lungfuls of air, the sight waiting for him is enough to make him shut down. Castiel has studied years - more than half his life, in fact - the ways a human mind can break and the things it does to protect itself. Even with all that time, even though he  _ knows what’s happening,  _ he still can’t stop himself from simply drifting off. 

“Hey… Cas.” Dean gasps at him from inside the cage. Sam, thundering up the stairs behind him, comes to a sudden stop, smacking into Castiel and waking him up from his stupor. All the same, there’s an unproductive minute where they just gape.

Dean, naked, stands on a stool that’s too small, forcing him to be on his toes to avoid strangling on the noose firmly tied around his neck. The other end of it is leading up through the small trap door in the roof of the elevator, and secured on the machinery there. His arms are bound behind him with cuffs that he’s fairly sure came from his own house.

Sam tries to open the cage door and swears, a spark of electricity zapping him. 

“He rigged it -” Dean grinds out. 

Sam looks him in the eye. “You aren’t allowed to die, so just hold on.” He gets out his cell phone and starts down the stairs, barking orders into it at a rapid fire pace.

Dean rolls his eyes, weirdly calm. Drugged, Castiel thinks. It’s hard to see his pupils in the mostly dark hall. 

“So, I’m sorry, Cas, but your brother isn’t invited to Christmas at my house this year.” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Presumptuous. Christmas is obviously at my house.”

“Well-he’s… he’s not invited to that one either.” Dean groans. His legs are shaking with effort, the tiny stool rocking a little. At this point he might give out from muscle fatigue before anything else happens. 

Castiel shakes himself out of his own fugue. He feels disconnected from his own body, and in a weird way it helps. He focuses on the setup instead of panic, examining it closely. Dean’s just the right size for that trap door, so if the elevator falls, he’ll hang in the shaft. Experimentally, he jabs his hand at the cage, pulling it back with a curse. He has to see what his brother’s done on top of the elevator better. He needs a ladder. The storage room down the hall has a tall one, left by facilities ages ago, and never retrieved. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he assures Dean, and hurries down the hall before he can hear him panic.

The lights this far down the hall flicker like a bad movie. For a horrible second, he’s convinced that Gabriel is standing at the far end of it, watching him. He struggles with the storage door, which is sticking, the constant rain having seeped moisture into the ancient wood. It gives suddenly and he staggers back. The ladder is right there, wedged awkwardly in the small space, with a bonus toolbox resting underneath. Castiel isn’t coming back down this shadowy hall for anything - he doesn’t trust that the lights won’t go out. He hauls them both at once and it is mind-bendingly time consuming, worry choking and clawing at him. What if Dean gave up? What if the elevator moved? What if he’s too late?

He’s not too late. 

Dean’s drugged eyes light up in relief at the sight of him dragging the ladder down the hall. Cas drops it, panting, and lets it lie for a moment, examining the contents of the toolbox. Screwdrivers, tape, wire cutters, a hammer, a small pry-bar, collect on a removable top leaving  various spools of wire and small boxes of screws in the bottom. Sam comes up the stairs then, two at a time, taking everything in and looking quizzically at Cas.

“I saw something on the top of the elevator. You’re going to cut power to the building?”

Sam takes control of the ladder, setting it up with ease. Castiel watches him, marveling at his calm. He’s barely holding on by his fingernails, and Dean’s brother is magnificently in control. It makes him hope.

Climbing it, Sam says,“We plan to, but we can’t do it with all these kids here. Most of them are drunk and the lights going out will make them panic. The last thing we need are kids falling down that stairway. They’re evacuating right now…” Bracing against the top step, Sam pulls out a tiny flashlight and shines it at the machinery above the elevator. “Will you look at  _ that. _ ”

He jams the flashlight in his mouth and pulls out his cellphone to take some pictures before climbing back down. He shows Cas the screen.

“See this battery? It’s attached to the outside of the cage, electrifying it. The good news is that this won’t kill anyone immediately. The biggest risk is from a heart attack. It’s still painful, but we can probably disarm it if we’re careful, and touch it briefly.”

Cas squints.“So if we turn the power off, we’ll still need to disarm it. Is that a camera?”

Sam nods. “And some other stuff I can’t really identify, but I’m assuming that it’s to bypass the circuit so he can make the elevator go down whenever he wants. My fear is that he’s going to get bored and just drop Dean before we can shut the power off...” 

Castiel’s phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Gabriel:  _ Panic is a good look on you. Stop stalling. _

Sam looks at it grimly. Behind them, the elevator shudders, and Dean cries out. They turn, but it’s only moved a tiny bit. A show of power. Dean is stretched now, struggling on his toes. The noose is tighter, cutting off some of his air, and his eyes are starry as he takes in shallow, frightened breaths. Some combination of psyche and drugs has made parts of him excited. Fury ignites under Castiel’s panic. 

His phone buzzes again.  _ You know what I want, bro. Dean is my best friend, I would hate to kill him. _

Except for the throbbing of the music downstairs, everything is silent as both men run scenarios through their heads. Castiel can feel a calm envelop him when the solution presents itself. Sam’s read his mind and is shaking his head, saying something, but Castiel just smiles and ignores him. Coming as close to the elevator as he dares, he feasts his eyes on Dean. 

Though he’s shaking and hazy from drugs, Dean’s eyes are glued to him, suddenly suspicious. 

“I love you, Dean. You’re going to make it through this.” 

Backing up until he can see the camera, Castiel waves at it. “I’m yours, Gabriel. Tell me what to do. But I won’t move until you open the elevator doors.” 

Sam’s muttering into his phone and it’s sweet, trying to have someone follow him, but Castiel knows he’ll be dead before any agents can rescue him. 

His phone buzzes.  _ You’re breaking my heart here. Deal. Go down the hallway and take the back stairs one level down. Wait for me there. _

Dean is shaking his head, panicking. Alarmingly, it’s making his tenuous stance on the stool wobble. “Don’t, Cas, don’t do this, stay here. He will kill you. Stay with me. Sam can fix it. Cas, don’t go!”

Castiel gets as close as he can to the cage, the small hairs on his arm standing on end. His phone buzzes again. He ignores it. He will have his goodbye, and his brother be damned.

“Asking me to watch you die is a bold move, Detective. I would rather spend my last moments making sure you live. Listen to me now. I’ve got to go, and neither of us have much time. Do as Sam says. Don’t despair. I love you.”

Eyes filled with tears, defiant, Dean looks at him. Their eyes meet. For a timeless, weightless moment they stay suspended there, lost in each other. 

Then Dean steps off the stool. 

Everything becomes a blur. Grabbing the pry bar from the tool chest, Castiel launches himself at the cage door. It hurts, intensely, but he holds on, trying to muscle the thing open. Dean thrashes at the end of the rope and Sam is yelling something, but the door starts to budge and Castiel can’t spare the energy to hear it clearly. He can smell himself burn, acrid and horrible. A shower of sparks falls from above and there’s an elephant on his chest. It hurts so damn much-the door gives suddenly and he falls. He can still hear Dean choking long before he loses complete consciousness.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam and Dean stamp their feet on the mat, dislodging snow before hauling the tree into the living room and right into the space cleared for it. After getting rid of sodden shoes and socks, they start to set it up, Dean holding the tree straight while Sam fools with the base. He can barely be heard under it, grumbling and swearing about sap and the practicality of a plastic tree over a real one.

“A real tree conveys the beauty of the season better, Sam. Plus it smells divine.” Castiel comes from the kitchen carrying a tray of mugs with hot chocolate. 

Dean lets go of the tree, provoking another round of swearing from Sam. “Hey, you’re supposed to be resting. Let me take that.” 

Dean hustles him back onto the couch, taking the tray from him and tucking a big soft blanket around him. “You heard what the doctor said, dammit.”

Castiel lets his fingers trace the line of Dean’s jaw as he draws him in for a kiss. “That was quite some time ago, Dean. I am recovered.”

Dean shivers, turning his head to kiss Castiel’s fingers. “It wasn’t that long ago. Let me take care of you. Stress free holiday, remember?”

Castiel draws him onto the couch. “Then, I insist that you hold me, and we watch Sam do all the work.” 

Dean grins at the muffled noise of outrage from under the tree and acquiesces, pulling Castiel against him. Curled up around each other, they watch Sam finish setting up the tree and start on stringing lights. Dean can feel Cas start to fall asleep, head resting on his chest. He runs his hands through dark hair, provoking a satisfied murmur. 

This calm normalcy is good after a month and a half of - well, everything. Waking up in the hospital to find Castiel also there. The FBI. Lawyers. Jody, terrifying and surprisingly  _ not _ firing him. None of it was over, of course. No one can find Gabriel and Castiel still gets texts from him, as well as a few very disturbing emails. 

“Stay,” Castiel whispers, maybe in his sleep. “Stay forever.” 

When he’d woken up in the hospital to find Dean hovering over him anxiously, neck red and raw with the proof of his devotion, that’s what he’d said. Sam had tried to intervene, tried to talk sense to Dean. 

Dean was tired of people trying to tell him what to do. No, not true. He was tired of  _ everyone but Castiel _ telling him what to do.

He’d said it again to him, sitting in Dean’s car the day he’d picked Cas up from the hospital. He’d looked small and scared, swallowed up in the enormity of everything. Dean had just kissed him and brought him home. Even though he never gave Cas an answer, he hadn’t left. They never talked about it, but eventually he just gave up his lease and moved his few things over to Castiel’s house.

Dean is wearing Castiel’s early Christmas present, a simple leather wristband, presented to him after a gentle but breathless night spent on his knees. He turns his hand so he can see the bead on it catch the light.

Stay forever. Dean isn’t sure why he hasn’t answered, but he knows what his heart says; it has been saying the same thing for years, in fact. He watches his brother’s frustration with the giant snarl of lights, a grin hovering around his lips. This all feels like family. It feels good.

Castiel’s weight is heavy on him. He smells like shampoo and sleep and chocolate. Dean has never felt so at peace. Gently, he kisses dark hair, whispering his answer into Castiel’s dreams. 

“Okay, Cas. Forever.”


End file.
